


Sweet Temptations

by SashaDistan



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Great British Bake Off Fusion, Baking, Fluff and Humor, Gay Disaster Keith (Voltron), Gay Disaster Shiro (Voltron), Keith (Voltron) is Good With Knives, Look it's the Bake Off but with Sheith - you get what you get, M/M, Minor Lance/Allura (Voltron), Minor Ulaz/Thace (Voltron) - Freeform, Mutual Pining, Puns & Word Play, Shiro (Voltron) is a Good Guy, Slow Burn, Stress Baking, descriptions of food, so many baked goods, so much thirst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:54:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26650987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SashaDistan/pseuds/SashaDistan
Summary: Shiro is sweet on one of the bakers in this year's competition.Keith is just going to have to bake his heart out.Everyone else is going to... help. Puns are helping, right?
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 162
Kudos: 149





	1. Keith

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lionescence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lionescence/gifts).



Keith feels like he makes it through the first week of the show by the skin of his teeth. There are twelve of them in the tent, eleven now, but with the two judges, two presenters, and four pairs of camera techs, the tent is damn busy. Keith is used to keeping to himself and his space – both at home and in the garage where he works – but he’s fairly certain his quiet nature comes across as stand-offish on camera. After the technical challenge – where Keith came right in the centre of the pack – the skinny guy next to him in the line-up turns and declares that their traditional Victoria sponges are so similar, that they must be rivals now. Keith can’t even remember his name.

Which isn’t to say he doesn’t get on with anyone. Coran and Kolivan are just as wonderfully hilarious in person as they have been on his screen over previous seasons of the show, and Coran’s utter flamboyance is the perfect counterpoint to Kolivan’s dry, acerbic wit. Keith has had to clench his jaw to stifle his giggles, to avoid ruining their pieces done to camera.

Most of the other contestants are really nice. Everyone is thrilled and surprised to be here, glad to have been picked and super nervous about their bakes. Hunk – who is big, sweet, and Samoan – is easily the most doubtful about his skills, though Keith cannot imagine why. In the first week, Hunk has the bench behind him and Keith spends most of the weekend salivating over the things which come out of his oven. Hunk is self-deprecating and soft, and he reminds Keith of a kid in one of the group homes he shared for a bit. And like that kid, Keith feels an overwhelming desire to protect him from judge Sanda’s vicious tongue.

There’s Ulaz, who is the eldest contestant; he’s humble and good-natured and calls everyone ‘son’ and ‘sweetie’. No one has called Keith ‘son’ since he was eleven, and it makes him far more emotional than he’ll readily admit. Pidge’s bakes feel more like science experiments than baking, and Keith knows no one has ever used molecular gastronomy techniques in the first round before. Ina and Nadia are ying and yang, both in physical appearance and baking style. Nadia and her workstation are a mess, but her flavours are amazing: Ina’s showstopper was the most beautiful thing Keith has ever seen, but it tastes like nothing at all. Lotor looks elegant standing at the bench in front of Keith, with his sleek hair beautifully braided, but he whimpered audibly when he was told – again – that there is only tea in the tent, and no hand roasted, fine ground coffee will be forthcoming.

Keith’s favourite competitor – hands down – is Romelle. She’s only a few years older than him, just finishing university, and is everything he’s not. Romelle is academic, bright and bubbly, with yards of perfect blonde hair and a fashion sense best described by her many layered dresses and tunics with huge draped sleeves. And yet, she’s totally immaculate when she bakes – nary a stray hair or puff of flour. In comparison, Keith did his second ever piece on camera with a streak of chocolate down one cheek which no one told him about until afterward, and he is certain his hair has never looked worse.

But the absolute best thing about getting into the show is also the worst. Because thirsting quietly over one of the judges is very different when Keith does it alone in his apartment. Last weekend he had stood opposite Takashi Shirogane, the master of modern baking, the man who literally wrote the book on the fusion of Japanese flavours in contemporary desserts, a guy who has baked for royalty. There had been nothing between them but the width of Keith’s workbench and a mixing bowl. And Shiro had smiled and told him _‘go on, it’ll be great’_ when Keith had expressed his doubts about their showstopper challenge. Keith had turned the same colour as Romelle’s dress.

Up close, Shiro is every inch as attractive as he is on television, and many more inches besides. The camera somehow doesn’t capture the breadth of his shoulders, or the deep swell of his chest when he inhales the aroma of a bake. His soft grey-brown eyes are framed with luxuriously dark lashes, countering the tint of his dove-silver hair, and Keith swears he can feel the weight of Shiro’s gaze falling on him from across the room. He really wants to be imagining it, because openly thirsting over one of the judges on the nation’s most beloved television series is going to do terrible things to his reputation.

It doesn’t help that Shiro is so _nice_. Sweet and supportive and oh so genuine with his praise. But because of that sincerity, he is also fair, firm, and Keith never wants to be subjected to that kind yet disappointed gaze. Allura – who was sweet and probably talented but rubbish with raising agents – suffered that look in week one along with the cake which was ultimately her downfall. ‘ _Unfortunately Allura, that is not a Victoria sponge, that’s a frisbee,_ ’ was delivered with as much gravitas as one might announce a death.

The biggest tragedy of Allura’s expulsion from the tent, is that Keith’s supposed rival somehow managed to fall in love with her over the course of one weekend. The man is making doe eyes at the place she previously stood, even though there’s no spare bench there now.

But now, it’s bread week, and for the signature challenge Keith has to produce a flavoured quick bread – one without yeast – in ninety minutes. He feels good, this is a recipe he’s practised loads, so he gets right to work weighing out his flour and measuring his bi-carb as the tent comes to life with similar activities around him.

“There’s dough everywhere!” Kinkade, who is yet again using chocolate as his main flavour, declares. “It’s a dohverload!”

Several of them glance up at his words, and Keith bites his lip to hold back his snort of laughter, because even though they are only ten minutes into the challenge, Kinkade’s bench is indeed _covered_ in chocolate powder and bits of dough. It should not be possible for anyone to have created that much mess, so fast.

“So, Keith.” Shiro, Sanda, and Coran have materialised at Keith’s bench as he begins to slice up his jalapenos and roasted red peppers. It is a testament to his knife skills that he doesn’t cut his finger off at the sudden vision of Shiro so close. “Tell us about your quick bread?”

“Er…” Keith kicks himself internally. He is not going to be the deer-in-headlights, the guy who can’t get a sentence out in front of his accidental celebrity crush. “I really like Mexican flavours, so it’s kind of a bread taco.” Looking at Shiro and talking is too hard, so Keith dices the rest of the chilli in record time and smiles at Coran instead. Their host twirls his enormously bushy orange moustache around one finger and gives him a reassuring wink. “So, I have jalapenos and roasted peppers, which add to the moisture – not too much though!” he reassures the judges quickly. “And then dried oregano, garlic powder, onion powder, and cumin in the dough itself.”

“Sounds strong.” Sanda arches an eyebrow as she speaks, and Keith feels fear trickle down his spine.

“We like punchy flavours,” Shiro says with a broad grin. A moment later, a wide, warm hand lands on Keith’s shoulder. Shiro is touching him, Keith’s practically fucking ascending just from that. “What’s this for?” He waggles Keith’s jar of smoked paprika between two black and silver prosthetic fingers.

“Oh, for the dusting after the shaping! Every time I tried cheese toppings it just overpowered everything else.”

“Very nice.” Shiro smiles.

“It’s not really a Mexican quick bread without cheese.”

Keith turns to glare at Lance across the aisle. His bench also holds a similar collection of spices, though he is using dried chillies and flaked red peppers instead of roasted. He does however have a massive chunk of Manchego cheese in front of him. Keith feels a muscle in his cheek twitch – there’s no way that combination is going to work with such a high volume of ingredients.

“Oooooh!” Coran is instantly at Lance’s bench, fingers itching to taste things. Both hosts are just walking appetites, Keith is sure. “The battle of the Mexican quick breads.”

Lance puffs his chest out, and Keith returns instantly to his spices. There’s not any spare time in this challenge, even though these breads won’t need to prove. Hopefully the cameras are now trained on Lance anyway; he is more charismatic. It’s not that Keith hates attention – he did apply to be on a nationally televised baking competition after all – it’s just that’s not the main reason he’s here. The only thing he has to prove to is to himself after all. When he glances up, Shiro is still watching him – as is a camera – and Keith knows he’s blushing.

“We are rivals, after all,” Lance is saying to Coran in a conspiratorial, theatrical faux-whisper. “And he copied me!”

“I doubt that,” the guy behind Lance – Griffin – says, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah he did. You can tell with the way he hides behind his mullet.”

“Who still wears a mullet these days?”

“Boys, no picking on Keith,” Ulaz commands from his bench near the back. For a guy who never had kids, he could not sound any more parental if he tried. Ulaz uses a bench scraper to cut his nicely formed cardamom and poppy seed quick bread, and smiles lovingly at the camera. “The cross on top lets the devil out. That’s what my grandmama always told me.”

Kolivan attracts the attention of the lens with a smirk and folds his arms over his impressively purple shirt. He hip-checks Coran as the smaller man comes to join him.

“I dunno, I kind of like a little devil in my bread.”

The camera techs laugh so hard they have to take a break and let another team frame up the next shot of Ulaz putting his loaf in the oven.

*

Bread, nothing but the interior texture of a loaf of bread filling the viewscreen. And then the soft crunch and crackle of the crust, as it’s gently squeezed. The sound is too close, weirdly intimate considering that it is _bread_ , but intoxicating nonetheless. Coran’s voice is smooth and low when he speaks.

“We all know that really good bread begins with the crunch, the sound of flavour, the symphony of crackle. All the best bread sounds this way.”

The camera pans out to show Coran holding a baguette up to Kolivan’s ear, squeezing it gently. Kolivan stares directly at the camera with a dead-pan expression as he speaks.

“What? Not everyone uses a bloomer for a pillow…”

In the background of the shot, Hunk nearly faints from stifling his laughter.

*

It’s the afternoon, their second technical challenge is underway, and Keith’s greatest sadness is that all technicals are judged blind, and so Shiro isn’t there. Talking to him is kind of terrifying, though his praise is like warm honey down the back of his throat. Thankfully, Sanda isn’t there either.

Their dough is proving in the drawer, and at each bench, numbers are being chanted and whispered in and out of sequence. It sounds like some kind of weird long division summoning ritual.

Keith is not partaking in the ritual, because plaiting with eight strands is something he already knows how to do. He sits with Romelle and her yard-long blonde hair, passing eight over five, then two under three and over eight and so on. After a while, he realises that everyone in the tent is staring. Hunk is slack jawed with wonder, Griffin and Lance are wearing twin expressions of sheer bewilderment, and Lotor is winding a lock of his own silvery hair around his finger with a mournful expression.

“Don’t worry Lotor, I’m sure Keith will do yours whilst the loaves bake,” Romelle says with a bright smile.

“Where did you learn to braid like that Keith?” Ulaz sounds full of wonder as he watches.

Keith swallows nervously.

“Keith, go on.”

“My mom taught me. It was important to her.”

“You don’t braid yours though?” Lotor asks gently. Keith smiles. Bless Lotor and his soft manner, asking questions without prying, even if he is six hours into caffeine withdrawal.

“My hair doesn’t seem to want to grow out properly. Maybe one day.”


	2. Shiro

“My, my, what a… selection we have here.”

Shiro smiles as he approaches the gingham alter, the eleven eight-stranded-plaited loaves laid out upon it in an anonymous order, the nervous contestants on their stools a little further off. Instantly his eyes flick along the row and he picks out one which is so perfect and tightly plaited it was as though he’d done it himself. He has no reason whatsoever to suspect that it was made by his favourite contestant, but he really wants it to be. Before he’s even realised what he is doing, he finds Keith in the line-up, perched on his stool like he’s ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble – and smiles.

And Keith smiles back.

Shiro is confident he’s not imagining the reaction, because whilst the rest of the contestants look varying degrees of terrified and nervous, one corner of Keith’s mouth tilts upward in a little lopsided smile Shiro can’t help but find completely endearing. It’s one thing for the boy to look like the culmination of every lonely, late night fantasy Shiro has ever had, but he’s also so sweetly earnest. Serious is a very good look on him, and Keith marshals his features back into it as soon as Sanda starts talking.

“Well, let’s start at this end. The plaiting isn’t great, they seem to have become a little confused at this end…”

Shiro has the bread knife, and he feels almost mean as he saws through the loaf.

“In fairness, it is baked all the way through though. Good crumb structure.”

“Indeed.” Sanda steps aside and they move to the next one. “Oh dear.”

 _Oh dear_ is right, because the plait in front of them is… wonky, and that’s being kind. Shiro says as much, but doesn’t dare look up to see which baker is trying not to cry into their apron. It cuts like a brick.

“The glazing is very good,” Shiro offers, grasping for something to be nice about before sipping some water to get the taste of _whatever that was_ from his mouth.

The pretty loaf is second from the end, and Shiro can hardly wait to get to it.

“Now, this is an extremely pretty loaf.” Sanda says, practically glowing as she speaks. “Look at that shine.” She actually holds it up for the cameras, caressing the neat and even bumps of the intricate plait.

“And look at that,” Shiro says as he turns it over, “super-even along the back too, and a lovely colour all round.”

Inside, the loaf is gorgeously baked, the structure perfect, the rise sublime. If Shiro was being super picky, it could have maybe done with five minutes less in the proving drawer, but really, it’s a moot point. It’s wonderful.

“On to the last one.”

Honestly, Shiro’s not expecting anything mind blowing from the last loaf, but though the plait is obviously a bit too loose – the baker was clearly nervous of over working the dough – the taste is excellent. As good as the previous one.

“You should all be very proud,” Shiro says as he addresses the team of bakers, having conferred in hushed whispers with Sanda about the ranking. “It was a difficult challenge, and you all produced a finished, edible loaf. It’s nice to see that several of you followed my words of wisdom before you started the recipe.” He sees the eye rolls, which is fine. Most people don’t understand that for him _patience yields focus_ is about much more than baking. “Well, let’s start here at the bottom. Who’s is this?”

The loaf which is a brick belongs to Kinkade, who somehow didn’t add the yeast to his dough despite it being the major ingredient. The wonkiest one is Nadia’s, which Shiro thinks is about standard for her, and so they go up through the names as he or Sanda explain their reasoning and the faults in as nice a sway as possible. Or at least, Shiro tries to be as nice as possible, tempering Sanda’s harsh tone with his own almost-compliments. When they reach the final two and only have Hunk and Keith left to name, he can feel his co-judge tense beside him.

“Second is… this one.” Shiro points to the loaf on the end, and Hunk blushes hard as he sticks his hand up to claim it. “It was really excellent Hunk. Such a good flavour, it just needed slightly tighter braiding.”

The back and forth of the show means it should be Sanda who talks about the winning loaf, but one sideways glance shows him that a muscle in her eyelid is visibly twitching. They both know Keith has come first in this technical challenge, and for some reason, Shiro knows his co-host really doesn’t like Keith. Shiro has no idea what it is about him that rubs her the wrong way, but they’d finished the first episode and she’d muttered something about not being able to wait until they were rid of the ‘bad boy of baking.’

Keith’s not a bad boy, though the idea of him in a leather jacket is one which causes Shiro to wish his trousers weren’t so tight. The gingham alter of bakery isn’t actually high enough for him to hide behind. Keith’s an oddity maybe. A little quiet, though not shy per se; maybe reticent, guarded. He doesn’t have a last name on file and Shiro knows from reading through all the baker’s personal histories gathered from their application forms and mini interviews, that Keith’s is very nearly barren. He is an enigma with talent, purple eyes, cheekbones which could cut glass, and strong, slender hands which Shiro has certainly _not_ visualised wrapping around long cylindrical shapes. And not just rolling pins-

Shit, they’re waiting for him.

“Which means our winner, is Keith.” Shiro beams as the young man raises two tentative fingers in a little salute. “Congratulations Keith. I couldn’t have braided that better myself… and I suppose it’s you Romelle has to thank for her hair?”

Keith nods, blushing furiously as Romelle flips her hair over her shoulder to show off for the camera now trained on them. A quick elbow in Keith’s ribs has him stuttering out a thank you.

The end of the technical challenge is also the end of the first day, and now that the judgement is over, the camera techs want all the contestants out on the greens lawns surrounding the marquee for their exit interviews. Shiro carves another slice from Keith’s loaf as the technical catering assistants begin the mammoth job of clearing the marquee and removing all the food. Between the two challenges, a lot of bread has been produced today, and Shiro knows there will be a van and a staff member from the local orphanage here to collect it all. Baked goods aren’t the healthiest of foods – this is a given – but Shiro has been proud to donate as much food as is safe and sensible on every season of the show he’s worked on. Right at the beginning he had it written into his contract, it’s non-negotiable.

Which hasn’t seemed to matter to the new producers working on bringing the show over to another network. Shiro munches his pilfered slice of bread, and refuses to dwell on sad thoughts as he steps out the back entrance.

Only years and years of long hours in fast paced, high energy kitchens stop him before he smacks directly into the black clad figure heading the other way. The young man has lightning fast reactions too, but as Shiro raises an arm to brace for the expected impact, he steps aside and they both end up half stuck in the doorway to the marquee. And then a pair of violet eyes look up at him, and Shiro genuinely forgets all of the words in the English language.

“ _Konnichi wa_ ,” he manages, then cringes internally. It’s been years since he failed this miserably at talking to a cute guy. “Sorry.”

“It’s no… it’s fine?” Keith looks unsure why he’s turned the words into a question. “Hi.”

“You did really well today Keith. You should be very proud.”

At such close range, Shiro has a front row view to the way that Keith blushes, the colour blooming across his high cheekbones as his dark lashes flutter closed. The pink of his lip pressed by pointed white teeth is sweetly endearing. As he did during the morning’s signature bake, he ducks behind his bangs, and the motion makes him seem small.

Shiro frowns.

“People don’t tell you your food is good often, do they?”

Keith shrugs. Shiro is aware that the boy must know he’s talented, he applied to the show after all. He waits, not pressing, and deliberately eats the rest of his slice of Keith’s bread where the boy can see him. The silence between them is far from uncomfortable, and eventually, Keith shuffles from one foot to the other and digs his hands into his pockets as he speaks.

“You have to actually _have_ people for that.”

Shiro makes a noise to show he’s heard, but not one of inquiry. Either Keith wants to tell him, or he doesn’t, and Shiro knows better than to press. His curiosity can wait.

“I grew up in the system. You get used to not having people around to tell you you’re good enough.”

“You are good enough Keith.”

Keith turns, if possible, and even richer shade of red.

“Oh.”

Shiro touches his wrist, just to get him to look up, and only when Keith’s eyes land on his does he realise quite how close they are standing.

“I’ll keep telling you until you believe me.”

“As many times as it takes?” Keith asks, the tiniest hint of a smile playing over his lips. Shiro beams back.

“As many times as it takes.”

*

Hunk’s eyes light up when the showstopper challenge is announced. The baker’s have had time to practice their festival loaves, and several of them are clearly delighted with their recipes. Shiro fights his instinct to simply gravitate towards Keith’s workstation, as though he is the centre of the solar system, and head’s for the big Samoan’s bench instead.

“So, a good challenge for you then, Hunk?”

“Oh yes! I love this recipe, and so does my family. My _tinamatua_ has been a very vocal critic – she always is – and we may have missed out on a lot of sleep trying to get this one right.”

Hunk’s excitement is infectious, and Shiro finds his cheeks plumping with a grin as Hunk talks him through his ingredients. There is coconut cream, palm sugar, and fresh coconut flakes which Hunk shaves off a halved fruit with a special peeler for him to try. Plus a whole range of dried and candied fruits which will be embedded in the loaf. The sketch is no less wondrous – though Hunk is clearly not a natural artist.

“So, you roll the dough out in a sheet, then paint it with the sugar and fruit mix and roll it up. Then it’s cut nearly all the way through – see I have these little wooden sticks to stop me from cutting too far.” Hunk holds out two batons which have already been well used as cutting guides judging by the knife marks along them. “And then we simply turn it into a ring and splay out the discs on their either of the main spine, glaze and bake.”

“ _Simply_?” Echoes Pidge from the next bench, and the camera pans to them as the colour drains from their narrow features. “ _Simply,_ he says like that’s not an entire feat of engineering right there. Damn, I need to up my game.”

Shiro glances over at Pidge’s bench, and baulks at the sheer variety of ingredients strewn across it. Already, Pidge’s bakes have tended to have one too many elements, and Shiro wishes Hunk good luck before wandering over to join by Coran. The self-styled _Handsome Man_ of the tent seems intent on dipping a finger into every ingredient, and Pidge appears to want to enable him in this. Shiro is practically in stitches by the time they are done, and retires to a stool at the side of the marquee to recover, sip some water, and observe the bakers and their work.

His attention drifts all too readily to Keith. There is something utterly mesmerising about watching the young man knead his dough. He’s taken off his over shirt, the red cotton simply flung over a nearby chair, and his apron is tied – unconventionally and technically against the producer’s regulations – around his waist. His plain black slim-fit tee shows off the long lines of his body, so taut and svelte as he stretches and pounds his dough into submission. The motion is fluid and speaks of many, many hours of practice – turning, pulling, folding, squishing – with a rhythm Shiro knows he could easily fixate on. Just watching Keith is akin to meditation. And each movement requires his muscles to stretch or bunch, and Shiro can’t help but think thoughts better reserved for the privacy of his bedroom, as he watches the way Keith bites his lip, eyes half shuttered in concentration, lashes fanning across his cheek.

Kolivan and Coran move around the tent, giving the contestants plenty of time off from trying to think, bake, and talk, in order to simply work on their showstopper festival loaves. Shiro is free to watch his favourite participant, with quick glances around the marquee to ensure no one has caught on to whom he is concentrating on. He smiles as Keith gets his dough into the proving drawer for its first rise, and begins to prep his fillings.

His festival loaf is going to be a traditional harvest wheat-sheaf, but with a wonderfully sweet twist. Shiro is very much looking forward to the apple and blackberry filling, the rosehip infused baked mice, and the other spiced pumpkin-dough critters which will hopefully adorn it. It’s a lot to do in five hours – considering each baker needs to let their bread prove twice – but Shiro has faith that Keith can manage.

“Could you stare any harder?” Kolivan asks, arriving at Shiro’s elbow and taking up a water bottle of his own as he steps out of range of the cameras.

“What?” Shiro snaps his spine ramrod straight, choosing to fix his gaze one somewhere, anywhere, other than Keith. He blinks, because apparently Lance is making an octopus, and Shiro’s definitely never been presented with a cephalopod in the tent before. “I’m not staring.”

“Uh huh.” Kolivan arches an eyebrow at him. “And I am an eight-foot-tall purple alien. See, we can both lie terribly.”

“Oh…” Shiro feels cowed. He fingers comb his fringe, before he glances up at Kolivan. Over the years that they have done this show together, he has come to think of both the hosts as friends, and Shiro feels cowed by the expression on Kolivan’s face. “Is it that obvious?”

“Oh Shiro...” Kolivan smiles kindly. “ _Transparently obvious_ to everyone. Everyone, except Keith that is.”

“What are we talking about?” Coran chimes in without warning as he wanders over. He’s eating something – filched from one of the baker’s benches no doubt – and Shiro hopes it isn’t any of Kinkade’s rare and exclusive chocolate. They do not need another lack-of-ingredients disaster.

“The silver fox’s crush,” Kolivan replies.

Shiro shudders with distaste at the nickname. After his accident when his hair had started turning prematurely white, the two-toned look had been kind of cool. And then it had accelerated, giving him a full head of silvery hair in his early twenties, and the jokes had started. He’s managed to leave the ‘old timer’ nickname behind - having basically refused to speak to anyone who ever greeted him that way – but everyone loves to have a pop about him being mature and dignified and sensible. Sometimes, Shiro wishes he could be much less sensible.

“Shiro my boy,” Coran slings a friendly arm over his shoulder. “He’s half your age.”

“No, he’s not. He’s nineteen.”

“You checked?”

This is not a good time to divulge that he has memorised the entirety of Keith’s application form.

“I am not that old, Coran.”

“Golly, look at the time.” Coran rolls back the psychedelic print sleave of his mod-cut suit to check his imaginary watch. “Let’s go talk to the baker’s whilst their loaves go into the oven.”

Shiro watches the hosts as they depart, and – of course – he ends up looking at Keith. Keith who is snipping the spines onto a doughy hedgehog before glazing his loaf. Romelle sidles up to him as he gathers his glaze ingredients and grins, mirth overflowing from her features. They are fractionally too far away for Shiro to hear clearly, but so many years working in a second language has gifted him impeccable lip-reading skills.

He sees the shape of his own name, and watches as Keith’s cheeks pink up quickly.

“You should say something to him.”

“Melly…. What the heck could I offer him?”

Romelle gives Keith an unmistakable up and down, and Keith tries to hide behind his hair. He picks up an egg, ready to make his glaze.

“You know...” Her entire demeanour is casually conversational. “He is _only_ nine years older than you. Like, I know it falls foul of the French rule, but it’s not that much. He’s looking again, by the way.”

Keith glances up, sees him, and the egg in his hand cracks – noisy as a gunshot. Egg white and yolk drips out though his slender fingers.

Coran coughs, and the camera swings to him.

“Well, that’s one way to get a rise out of a guy.”

Keith looks like he’s about to faint, and Shiro begins to stand, trying to work out how to rescue him from the developing situation.

“Please tell me not all of this ends up in the episode?” Keith asks weakly.

“Just remember we’re not allowed to swear,” Kolivan says loudly from his position by Griffin’s bench. “The producers have to edit out anything where anyone swears.”

“Fuck,” Keith intones with feeling.

Kolivan smiles brightly.

“Good boy.”

Forty minutes later at the end of the showstopper challenge, Keith’s loaf is a thing of beauty, Hunk’s is the most delicious thing Shiro has ever put in his mouth, and Romelle has managed to deliver something spectacular inspired by traditional samosas but which is still most definitely a loaf of bread. In discussion, Shiro cannot press Sanda into giving Keith the star baker award, despite the fact that he clearly is in this round having won the technical and done so well in the final bake, and the title instead goes to Hunk, who is still so incredibly deserving.

Kinkade goes home, there was just no coming back from the brick loaf. Everyone is sad to watch him leave.


	3. Keith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Keith has abs. Apparently.

Keith’s bench is across from Hunk’s when they make tiffin. It’s a short timescale challenge, considering how many layers they are having to bake, heat, chill, and set, and Keith is very focused on kneading icing sugar into his marshmallow mixture. He can no longer touch anything without getting sticky white fingerprints everywhere, and Romelle keeps winking at him from across the tent.

In front of him, Hunk has poured a voluminous mass of golden bubbly sugar onto a sheet of greaseproof paper to cool, and returned to beating his chocolate and egg yolk mixture. Kolivan inclines his head at Keith, silently checking to see if he needs assistance from his powdered sugar mess, before moving over to Hunk’s bench. After a careful prod to ensure that the sugar is no longer the approximate temperature of the interior of a black hole, he smiles at the camera, looking characteristically hungry.

“Either that’s honeycomb, or something melted.”

Hunk rolls his eyes, takes the handle of a wooden spoon, and breaks the aerated chunk of golden sugar apart. He takes a bit and tastes it with a soft frown before smiling.

“Oh, that’s not bad actually.”

Kolivan nabs another little bit from the edge of the tray and eats it. The expression with which he regards the camera is one of indescribable pleasure. He groans.

“Viewer, I married him.”

Hunk blushes darkly, and Keith ends up with a white handprint over his mouth to stop himself from laughing and ruining the shot.

*

“This is very good tiffin, Keith.”

“Thanks. You want another piece?”

“I’d say yes, but-”

“-But you have to eat ten of the ‘whatever is it’ we are making later in the technical?” Keith supplies, watching Shiro’s expression fall.

“Yes. Precisely that. I swear I haven’t eaten an actual meal all season so far.”

“Shiro!” Keith knows it’s none of his business what his secret crush eats, because Shiro is a fully grown adult and can eat whatever he wants. And it’s not like there’s anyone to judge Keith for eating tinned peaches with a fork whilst standing over the sink. At least it’s a fruit.

“It’s hell on the workouts,” Shiro admits softly. His self-deprecating little shrug still shows off the swell of his shoulders and arms, and Keith tries very hard not to stare.

“I think you’re good.”

“Yeah?” Shiro rubs the back of his neck, then glances up to meet Keith’s eyes. Keith can feel his heart-rate climb as the other man flexes his bicep deliberately. Keith gulps, the muscle must be the width of his head. “You should join me sometime.”

“No way I’ll be able to match you for weights.”

“So, we’ll match reps then.” Shiro offers easily, and Keith feels his heart skip. This he recognises. This is flirting – not that he’s ever really tried it much before – and despite the teasing he already knows Romelle is going to put him through later, it’s totally worth it, because Keith isn’t imagining the way Shiro is looking at him.

And then he leans forward, his hand lands in the tray of icing sugar he was using to rest his marshmallow squares in, in-between cutting so that they wouldn’t stick on the bench, and the whole thing upends all over himself.

Keith is fully aware that the universe hates him, because having sticky hands was one thing, but now he is covered from head to toe with sugar, blinking through his caked lashes. Shiro’s eyebrows tilt into a frown which is either adoring or pitying.

“I’m a disaster.”

“You’re a really good baker, Keith.”

“At this moment, that hardly seems relevant.” Keith tries to huff icing sugar from his bangs, and ends up coughing into his fist as powdered sugar invades his lungs. “At least I didn’t get any on you.”

And then Shiro does something unbelievable. He steps forward, right up to Keith’s bench, and swipes two fingers across his jaw, right next to his lips. Keith forgets how to breathe as he watches Shiro dab the white sugar onto the chest of his navy henley.

“I don’t mind you getting sugar on me.”

*

“Oh my god.” Romelle’s over excited hiss is the only warning for Keith not to yelp as she yanks him off the gravel path and into the bushes. Keith ducks under a rhododendron and scowls. “Did I just hallucinate or did I just see Takashi Shirogane _flirting_ with you, and wiping sugar off your lips?”

“It wasn’t my lips,” Keith protests, and then realises this was the exact wrong thing to say. He just gave her more ammunition.

“Keith! Fucking hell! Quick!” And just as suddenly as he was hauled into the shrubbery, Keith finds himself being pushed out again. “Go back and get him! Quickly, before he gets away!”

“Fuck- get off... Melly!” Keith twists from his friend’s grip and dances back a few paces as Romelle emerges from the flowers and their glossy foliage. “I’m not going to go back and make even more of a fool out of myself.”

“Why not?” Romelle looks completely stunned. “Did you not realise he was flirting back? Or that he looks at you like you’re one of Hunk’s pastries? The man wants to devour you Keith.”

Keith promptly sticks his fingers in his ears and screws his eyes shut, because that is a mental image he just does not need right now. He’s having a hard-enough time trying to keep his heart and his over excited libido in check as it is, without adding the thought of Shiro _eating_ him to the menu.

“No way Romelle,” he says eventually, once the girl has crossed her arms, flipped her hair, and pouted for a full straight minute. “Give it another week or so and he’s gonna figure out there’s nothing to want but a passable smile, and then I’ll be out of the competition anyway, and it won’t matter any more.”

“Keith…”

To his relief, Romelle doesn’t press him further, but they start on the gravel path lined with espaliered lime trees, heading for the mini marquee which is set out with all the creature comforts the competitors could need in between challenges. The technical is up next and Keith is not starting with powdered sugar in his hair. He is at least thankful the camera techs had already finished filming when he and Shiro started talking, so the awful moment cannot be broadcast on national television.

It’s weird to think he’s only known Romelle and others for three weeks. They all get along really well – with the exception of Lance and Griffin who both seem to have some weird half bro-dude-flirty, half unspoken rivals thing going on – and the sense of camaraderie in the tent is palpable. Already Keith misses Kinkade’s ready smile and propensity to always have chocolate on hand to soothe whoever needed a fix. In a on-camera interview, Ulaz said they were like a family, and Keith had clenched his fist and resisted the urge to let his emotions show. He’s had a lot of practice at that – his whole life near enough – but it feels weirdly true. The others are like weird cousins and uncles he never knew about, and as Romelle bumps his shoulder upon entering the tent, Keith is aware of how glad he is to have been adopted as an on-screen sibling by her.

“You are good enough, you know,” she says as Keith stands in the mixed-use wash room, trying to wipe most of the sugar from his hair without making himself look like a drowned rat. “You could win this thing.”

Keith snorts.

“I called it in week one, Hunk’s winning it.”

“Awww, thanks buddy.” Hunk calls from the main room. The dividers in the marquee are hardly what one might call soundproof. Someone – probably Lance – makes an indignant squawk, and Keith is fairly certain he hears Pidge smack him in the arm. Just like siblings.

“You’re still really good Keith. You deserve to be here.” Romelle hands him a folding travel hairbrush from one of her many hidden pockets, and Keith drags his bangs back from his face before giving up entirely and focusing on the mess of his shirt. Taking it off and trying to shake the sugar off seems the best option. “Shiro certainly seems to think so.”

“Melly….”

“I have eyes, Keith. He was _this close_ to kissing that sugar off your lips, I swear.”

“Who’s getting kissed?” Lotor’s silver hair and keen expression rounds the corner. His left eye is no longer twitching due to lack of caffeine, which is a relief, all things considered.

“No one. No one is getting kissed.”

Lotor frowns.

“Please don’t tell me you’re still having issues accepting your crush?”

Keith makes a noise like a dying animal. What has happened to his life? He’s never had anyone even remotely interested in him before – he shows up to work, he works hard, he gets paid, the end – but now there’s this whole group of people who care. And not just care to gossip or swap stories, but they all seem genuinely invested whether he’s happy or not. And he cares if they’re happy. It’s… weird. He’s not used to giving a crap about anyone else’s feelings.

“They nearly kissed over the tiffin,” Romelle supplies.

“We did not! I upended a tray of icing sugar over him, he probably thinks I’m a disaster – a clumsy disaster!”

“Oh, Keith.” Lotor manages to sound sincere rather than pitying when he speaks. “I mean, you are kind of a disaster, but I think he’s sort of into that.”

Keith groans.

“You could always turn up for the next challenge like that.” Nadia chips in. She’s obviously found something to stand on, and is peering over the top of the dividing wall looking over the mirror and Keith’s head. “There’s nothing in the contract which says you have to wear a shirt, and if you show up with those abs…”

“Keith has abs?”

“ _Several_.”

“I’m just cleaning my shirt! All of you, out.”

It’s Ulaz who takes Keith shirt and examines it critically. The icing sugar is mostly faded, but there is a distinctive smear of half set marshmallow which is not going to come out without washing. Which means Keith is going to be wearing a wet shirt to the next round. Hopefully his apron will cover it.

“Lance, lend the boy a shirt, would you?”

“Oh heck no. I don’t do colours!”

Keith is unsurprised that Lance shows up to each day of the competition with outfit choices, but he’s dammed if he’s going to wear any of them. Lance’s fashion senses appears to run toward the bright and garish.

“Red is colour, Keith.” Romelle points out.

“Shh.”

“Ah ha! This one!” Lance round the corner with a plain button-down cotton shirt in his hand, the fabric a deep wine-red. “I don’t even know why I brought it with me, does nothing for my complexion- oh… you weren’t kidding about the abs.”

“Seriously?” And now Griffin is here, and there are far more people seeing Keith shirtless than he would like, and none of them are the person he wants to maybe see him shirtless.

“You said that out loud.” Hunk supplies, ever helpful.

Keith buries his head in his hands and wishes the earth would swallow him whole.

*

Upon re-entry to the tent for the technical challenge, Keith discovers that shirts with full sleeves and cuffs were not designed to bake in, and only a sharp look from Romelle stops him from ripping the sleeve has he rolls it up. It’s an extremely short challenge, only forty-five minutes to create two-dozen perfectly shaped brandy snaps filled with Chantilly cream, but the camera techs still find the time to nudge the bakers about their interactions between the challenges.

Keith near burns his fingers holding his hot brandy snaps around the oiled wooden spoon handles, and listens to Lotor waxing lyrical about his new favourite person in the world.

“He’s so skilled.” Lotor gushes, sounding proud just to be standing in the same tent as Ulaz. “Experience and time are one thing, but there’s so much stuff he just _knows_ , and he’s pushed himself so much to keep up to date with new techniques. He really can do it all. And he’s the greatest inspiration. If my life turns out even half as good as his, I’ll be lucky.”

“You do know he’s married, right Lotor?” Keith interjects, half way through dolloping yet more of the mixture onto his hot baking sheet. It’s not worth doing more than four brandy snaps at once because they set too fast and can’t be curled.

“And have you met his husband?” Lotor sighs dreamily. “Thace is _so_ cool, not nearly as intimidating as I thought he would be considering he’s a blacksmith. The way they look at each other is- well, everyone should be looked at like that at least once.”

“My ears are burning,” Ulaz says from across the tent, counting and sorting his lacy brandy snaps without pause.

“I think Lotor is angling for you to adopt him,” Coran informs him with a soft smile.

“Oh good. Well, he knows he’s always got a place with us if he wants it. Someone has to help him get into patisserie school after all.”

At his bench, Lotor drops a tray of half-finished brandy snaps in shock, and Keith thinks it’s nice not to be the centre of attention for once.

*

The following day brings with it the biscuit week showstopper – a gingerbread construction which must be at least thirty centimetres in height and be decorated with both chocolate and sugar work – and also brings torrential rain. They stand in the tent, several of the competitors shivering as the weather lashes down against the plastic and canvas, the sudden crack of thunder is near enough that it drowns out Coran’s introduction to the day. He’ll have to do the take again.

“It’s pretty biblical out there,” Griffin comments from the space behind Keith.

“Nice to have some drama _outside_ the tent for a change,” Pidge snips.

Lotor arches a delicate eyebrow.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you could be referring to.”

Keith swallows his laugh, but the movement attracts Lance’s attention regardless. He’s back in his own clothes today, having washed his shirt at the hotel overnight, but it’s chilly with the rain, so he has an extra layer on too.

“What the heck is that jacket Keith? Where’s the lower half?”

Keith shoots a glare across the aisle between them.

“I have sharp knife and really good throwing skills, you wanna say that again?”

Lance just smirks, arches an eyebrow and mouths ‘look behind you’ before turning back to face front for Coran’s second take. Dreading what he’s about to encounter, Keith turns on the spot to find Shiro standing a little way from the end of his bench, the pink flush and guilty expression when he meets Keith’s gaze proves that he has indeed been spending however long he’s been standing there staring at Keith ass. Keith feels all his blood rush to either end of his body, and suddenly all the instructions and plans for his gingerbread sculpture are conveniently absent from his brain.

Neither of his remaining braincells are interested in baking. He’s so screwed.

*

The tension is high in the tent as they work on their showstoppers. It’s week six, five of their compatriots have already been dismissed, and just to make things worse, at the beginning of this five-hour challenge, Sanda announced that this week not one but two bakers will be leaving the tent.

And Keith only came in fourth during the technical, which is not good enough to keep him out of danger even if his first round went well. It’s not his fault that his religieuse were rushed and uneven. Choux pastry is a bitch, and the eggs here are a different size than he usually uses. Without the exact measurements, all his estimates were off and he had to make his pastry twice.

But he can’t focus on previous failures right now, because he needs to make the most perfect meringue in the history of meringue, in order to create macarons which have perfect texture. His showstopper relies heavily on the ability of his macarons to deliver flavour punches, and he only has to make… two hundred or so. It’ll be easy.

Keith unhooks the bowl from the stand mixer to check the consistency of his fluffy white peaks, and Romelle lifts hers up, smiling brightly toward the camera.

“Traditionally you have to hold it upside down over your head to check the consistency.”

“And if it falls out?” asks Coran.

“You get egg on your face!” Romelle shoots Keith a wink as he glares at his meringue.

He adds another spoonful of sugar and whisks again. It needs to be perfect.

“Keith would never check his meringue over his head,” Griffin mutters from his bench on the other side of the aisle. He too has both blueberry and raspberry powders on his bench and Keith can’t help but feel slightly rankled about it. “He can’t risk ruining his mullet by getting sugar in his hair… _again_.”

Romelle starts to say something to Griffin, but Keith grins, and glances up from his bowl of perfectly aerated stiff meringue to where Shiro is perched on one of the many observation stools. For the past four weeks, whenever he hasn’t needed to be moving around the tent, Shiro has been seated near the end of whichever bench Keith is working at. His presence now is familiar enough to make Keith feel bold.

“Hold still.”

Keith is under no illusions that the cameras are following him as he approaches the judge and flips the large glass bowl of fluffy white meringue upside down over his head. As it should the meringue doesn’t move – a little snowy mountain landscape suspended in the air – and Shiro ducks a little as he looks up at it with a critical eye. Keith rocks backwards a little on his heels, keeping the bowl still with his elbows tucked tight into his sides, the camera all but forgotten as he realises how close he is standing to Shiro. The position has practically put him between the other man’s spread knees.

Shiro reaches up with his natural hand to scoop the stiff point of the meringue up with one finger, and Keith feels his pupils dilate as Shiro pops his finger in his mouth. Their eyes meet as he sucks it off.

Keith knows he’s blushing, but Shiro has turned a very pretty shade of pink too – the exact shade Keith wants for his raspberry lemonade frosting actually. Keith bites his lip, watching the shape of Shiro’s mouth as he releases the damp but clean digit.

“Good meringue,” he murmurs softly.

Keith turns his bowl back over and cradles it against his chest, turning it into a physical barrier to stop him from simply crashing into Shiro.

The camera pans across the tent, capturing the sight of Lance and Griffin standing shoulder to shoulder, both holding bowls and whisks which they have forgotten about because they are gaping so hard at the sight before them. Kolivan and Coran are watching too, but with far less shocked expressions. Kolivan arches an eyebrow.

“I’m sure Keith won him over with his impressive wrist action,” Coran says with unabashed glee.

Kolivan frowns.

“He used the machine?”

Coran makes sure the camera is focused on him completely before he crosses is arms over his chest with deliberatly smug flamboyance.

“I said what I said.”

*

Keith’s festival of macarons is a hit with the judges. Well, it’s a hit with Shiro, and Kolivan and Coran – who don’t count but take an extra two of each macaron flavour away with them during the judging. Keith spies them nibbling away like naughty children it between takes of other baker’s final pieces. Sanda begrudgingly admits that she likes all the flavours and the presentation and the theme, but she manages to give all of her praise out in harsh, clipped tones which make the words feel like barbs instead of compliments. Keith knows she teaches pastry at the Cordon Bleu school in London, but he cannot imagine being one of her students. He knows if he had to deal with her feedback on daily basis, he’d be reduced to snarling ball of feral anger. Most of the other bakers have cried off camera, and the sight of Lotor sobbing inelegantly whilst Ulaz rubbed his back soothingly is not one which Keith will forgive her for creating.

When it’s Lance’s turn to be judged, Keith can’t help but blink in shock at the wobble of Lance’s bake. Meringue should not wobble.

“This is a temporary setback,” Lance says pointedly as they wait for the results. The judges are conferring in their private tent whilst the rest of the bakers’ drink tea. “We’re still rivals.”

“I thought you and Griffin were rivals?” Romelle chirps.

“No. I’m _Keith’s_ rival!” Lance insists.

“I thought Griffin was Keith’s rival?” Lotor interjects. He is staring longingly into his cup, like he might be able to will the substance within into transforming into finest Dominican hand roasted coffee.

“You ought to be much less concerned about rivalries, boys.” Ulaz’s rich, calm voice is like an auditory massage, and Keith can’t help but smile. “You all did very well today.”

“Thanks, Uncle Ulaz!”

“Yeah, thanks Uncle Ulaz!”

Ulaz beams, and ruffles Lotor’s hair before he takes his seat once more.

“So, who do we think they’ll pick as star baker this week?”

“Hunk,” Keith replies instantly.

“You always say that.” Hunk flushes with embarrassment. “But thanks.”

“Allura says good luck,” Lance interjects, grinning down at his phone with a distinctly moony expression.

“You guys are still talking?” Griffin asks, with just a hint of disbelief.

“Good for you.” Keith flips the collar of his jacket up as he leans back in his chair. “At least somebody is getting lucky.”

Once again, he regrets the words the moment they leave his lips, because he feels the attention in the room swivel towards him like the sails on a ship. Keith tries, unsuccessfully, to hide behind his hair.

“Says the man who was practically crawling into Shiro’s lap. With meringue.”

“I was not.”

“You should have licked it off his finger,” Romelle suggests.

Keith groans.

“Look you lot. Nothing happened. Nothing is going to happen. He’s…”

“Older,” Lance supplies.

“Sophisticated?” Hunk offers.

“Dreamy…” Lotor sighs in a false-tenor tone.

“Completely into you,” Romelle dead-pans. “Keith you are being wilfully oblivious at this point. Just grab the man by his _expansive_ shirt front and kiss him already!”

“Guys…” Keith aches somewhere between his heart and the pit of his stomach. He isn’t stupid, he knows Shiro is flirting with him, and that they’ve been watching each other for weeks now, but it’s not like it means anything. “Baking is not enough in common to build a relationship,” he mutters.

“Worked for all of us though, right?” Hunk says kindly.

“Yeah… but.” Keith takes a deep breath, stubbornness breaking through the misery which threatens to overwhelm him. “I’m not being anyone’s fling.”

There is a beat of silence, and then all attention turns to Lance as he pockets his phone, puffs out his skinny chest and says:

“Well there ain’t no risk of that, is there?”

“Huh?”

Lance waves a hand dismissively at Keith.

“It must be something about your personality that gets Shiro all mushy and heart-eyed. I mean, Lotor is much prettier than you.”

“Thank you?” Lotor frowns, looking sideways at Lance with a perplexed expression.

“What would you know about it? You’re straight.”

“Not the point. We’re talking about Keith.”

“Are we?” Keith glowers. Somehow none of this is making him feel any better.

“Anyway, like I said. He must like Keith’s personality. I mean, I make better sponge cakes than Keith, and we already agreed that Keith’s not the prettiest guy here-”

“I didn’t agree with anything,” Lotor interjects, keeping his position firmly neutral.

“-and Shiro doesn’t react to any of the rest of us like a lovesick school boy. He likes _you_ Keith, case closed.”

Keith crosses his arms, shrugging off Romelle’s soothing hand.

“Being the quirky foster kid with no friends only gets you so far. It’s hardly the kind of personality trait anyone wants in a boyfriend.”

“Oh, Keith…” Romelle’s voice is soft and low, not like her usually bubbly self, and Keith realises what he just said.

To his surprise, Griffin claps his hands together loudly.

“I’m sure I hear a sheep outside.” The show is shot in mixed farm and parkland, attached to a fine country estate, so it’s not impossible. “Lance, come help me check. We don’t want it stealing all your spare shirts.”

Without another word, everyone except Romelle and Lotor take their leave, and Keith digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, hiding his face in his drawn-up knees.

“Fuck,” he says, with feeling. “At least I didn’t say it in front of Shiro.”

“Keith…” Lotor slides into the seat next but one to Keith, leaving a respectful gap between them, and Keith glances over his kneecap to see the other man lean back into a refined slouch, not looking directly at him. “I know you don’t talk about yourself and your past much, but even I already know you well enough to know that’s not all there is to you.”

Keith grits his teeth before deliberately unclenching his fist and his jaw, he can feel himself wanting to give into the well-worn habit of pushing away anyone who might try and care about him. Rejection hurts less if he’s the one to do it first, after all. But these people are his friends. They care. He chews his lip before speaking again.

“You really think Shiro might like _me_?”

“Sweetie, you covered yourself in icing sugar and he _still_ looked at you like you’d personally hung the stars for his enjoyment.” Romelle twirls her hair around one finger as she speaks. “And look how far your background has brought you already. Week six, and you’re not leaving on this one, that’s for sure.”

“Melly…” Keith both loves and hates the way her praise makes him feel squirmy inside.

“Your past doesn’t define you Keith.” Lotor intones his words with far more gravitas than a conversation in a tent deserves. “You can choose what you want out of life. And clearly you want Shiro.”

“Well, yeah.”

Lotor shoots him a steady glance, and Keith suddenly can’t remember if the tall, pale haired young man has ever divulged anything about _his_ past to the room at large.

“So, what the heck are you doing still talking to us. Go take what you want from life.”

Romelle nods in agreement, but before Keith can say anything, the production assistants are calling them all back in for the results.

*

Keith wins star baker. Shiro looks smug, Sanda looks murderous, and Kolivan either doesn’t understand humour or has the greatest poker face of all time as he dishes out compliments about Keith’s ‘stiff peaks’.

Lance is all giggles until it’s his name Coran says as the one who has to leave the tent, and he and Griffin commiserate with each other when James is picked to join him in banishment.

Keith can’t admit to having bonded particularly with either of his so-called rivals, but he gives them claps on the shoulder and tells them he’ll miss them nonetheless. He’s mostly surprised to find out that it’s true.


	4. Shiro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a Very Beautiful Cake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gorgeous art in this chapter by the supremely talented [GreenDestiny](https://twitter.com/GreenDestiny000)

It’s the quarter-finals, and it’s pastry week. The tent looks suddenly sparse with only five competitors left. Five little colourful spots, vastly outweighed by the camera techs, production team members, and other staff on the show.

And yet the atmosphere is still light – serious but not stressed – and the bakers laugh and joke with each other as they get started on their savoury pies. These are for picnics and all to be eaten cold, and the only stipulation they have been given is that they must be family sized and use hot water crust pastry. It’s a good test of skill, and Shiro is looking forward to the tasting already.

“Thinking with your stomach again, Shiro?” Coran asks as he plops into the seat beside him.

“Always.”

“Well, that’s not entirely true.” Coran’s moustache twitches with mirth.

“Don’t… we made it through the last two weeks without incident, didn’t we?”

“And what about all the things the camera didn’t see?”

Shiro knows that he has no ability to school his expression at all, and that all his emotions flow across his face when Coran speaks. He tries to cover his hot blush by sipping his tea.

The truth is, things have been going great between him and Keith. Their interactions are still limited to the weekends on which they shoot the competition, but Keith somehow finds the time to see him before each round – except the technical which might seem suspicious – and he hangs about afterwards as well. True to form, they have not actually eaten a meal together yet, but have shared scraps of things left over from the bakes and things filched from the catering tent. After the week when Pidge was sent home, they shared a slice of passion fruit and orange cake before Keith helped him box everything up for delivery to the orphanage. Keith had looked deeply impressed when Shiro had told him where the food was headed, and Shiro had blushed for an hour or so.

Shiro’s a cook, he loves praise, but for some reason praise from Keith makes him want to spend his entire time trying to tease out another elusive little smile from Keith’s lips. When he’s with Keith, he feels more himself, than at any point during the filming of any of the previous seasons.

“You’re blushing again.”

“Am not.”

He is, because he’s thinking of the way Keith had asked to walk with him out to the line of taxis which deliver them back to their hotel in town, and how they had bumped shoulders all the way down the driveway. Keith had suggested they share a cab, and Shiro had vibrated the whole way there, all his attention fixated on the scant half inch of space between their hands on the centre seat. He had wanted to close that distance more than anything, but Shiro can’t deny that the dance is fun too.

From the wicked smile Keith shot him before stepping into the hotel elevator, he feels the same way.

“Go do your job,” Coran prompts. “The producers need shots of you circumnavigating the entire tent.”

Shiro might be sinking very fast into being in love with Keith, but he’s still a professional with a job to do – at least for now. There were more emails and potential contracts from the new network during the week, and Shiro isn’t impressed with the offer he’s been made. It’s not the money – it never has been, no one gets into the food business to get rich – but the various social intrusions he’s uncomfortable with. However the new network tries to frame it, there are things they want to do which don’t feel ethical to Shiro.

He circles around to where Kolivan is chatting with Keith, as Keith works on his hot water crust pastry. He presses it into the deeply fluted sides of his antique tin with slim, nimble fingers. Shiro would forgo all his favourite foods to find out what Keiths fingers feel like against his skin. He becomes aware that Kolivan is speaking to him, and that there are cameras rolling.

“Sorry?”

Kolivan smiles dangerously.

“So Shiro, what, in your opinion, constitutes a good stuffing?”

Shiro’s eyes go wide, his face turns the approximate colour of Keith’s t-shirt, and Keith becomes a statue.

Behind them, Lotor snorts tea out of his nose, and the camera tech has to call cut on the shot. Shiro hurries away before Kolivan can repeat his joke.

*

“Five minutes left, bakers!” Coran calls from the front of the marquee. He turns to the camera and point to his chest, where there is a deliberate and distinctive hand print in white flour directly over his breast pocket.

It is Romelle who looks up from her pie and snorts in the most unladylike manner anyone has ever heard.

By the time the chime goes for the end of the round, everyone is fighting back fits of infectious giggles. It’s wonderful.

*

They are ten minutes into the last challenge of the quarter-final, three varieties of petit-four and twelve of each variety per competitor. Shiro isn’t even pretending to walk about the tent at the moment, simply standing with one hip leaning against the far end of Keith’s bench whilst the young man begins to roll out his pastry dough. He is remarkably quick in getting the shortcrust together – and this isn’t the first time he’s made it for them, though this version is enriched with egg yolk to encase his bite-size fruit tartlets – but today Keith appears to be having problems.

He grunts something unintelligible which sounds rather like how an alien would swear, and drops his pastry back onto the bench with a scowl before taking up his scraper. He really can’t afford to roll it out again after this, or the gluten will be overworked and the pastry tough.

Yesterday, it had taken him the longest time to recover from the myriad of mental images Kolivan’s _stuffing_ question had flooded him with, blushing every time he even thought about looking at Keith. His wonderful picnic pie had been rather overshadowed by the knowing looks Coran kept giving him from just off camera as he tasted it. Shiro had wanted to hide away forever.

And after the camera techs had gone and the bakers were being shepherded out for the interviews, Keith had caught him alone, tilted his head to one side and grinned smugly as he’d asked.

‘So Takashi, _do_ you like a good stuffing?’

And Shiro had practically swallowed his own tongue.

Now though, the stressed looking boy in front of him bears only a passing resemblance to that cocky and suave creature who looked as though he’d wanted to eat Shiro alive. Keith glares at his pastry, and then narrowly avoids swearing as the dough rips once more when he tries to lift the sheet in order to turn it ninety degrees once more. The whole ‘rotate your pastry so it’s square’ is such a myth, and now because Ulaz patiently explained it to the camera, the entire nation will know the reason for the turning is to avoid stretching the gluten strands too far in any one direction. But that won’t matter to Keith at all if his pastry keeps tearing in his hands. Keith sighs heavily, rubbing sticky pastry bits from his fingers.

“You OK, Keith?” Shiro keeps his voice soft and low, hoping not the attract the attention of the cameras.

“It just… keeps sticking. Ergh!”

“Let me see.” Shiro can tell Keith wants to give into his tendency to doubt every single one of his skills, and Shiro would rather derail that negative train of thought as quickly as possible. Instead, he reaches out and takes both of Keith’s hands in his own.

Keith’s fingers are long and slender, his skin soft – tacky with pastry dough – but there are little callouses on the underside of his knuckles and the base of his fingers which speak of skill and the ability to carry his own weight. His hands are small in Shiro’s though, and Shiro’s fingertips brush against the thin skin of Keith’s wrists, cradling the boy’s palms against his own. And Keith is warm – firebrand hot everywhere they touch – and Shiro knows that’s his problem right now.

“Yes, your hands are very warm. And pastry likes cold hands.”

“Cold hands, warm heart,” Ulaz intones softly from his bench. “That’s just what my grandmama always sa-”

But Shiro doesn’t hear the rest of what is said, because Keith is looking directly at him, and Shiro has already fallen deep into those nebula studded eyes. The boy is like a gateway to another universe, one in which Shiro isn’t only defined by the highlights of his baking career, his accident, and the nicknames his prematurely grey hair gives him. Shiro wants to let Keith pull him through and live in the other reality.

Keith smiles softly, one corner of his lips quirking upward, and Shiro finds himself echoing the gesture, everything in the corners of his vision going out of focus as he focuses only upon Keith. He licks his lips, hyper aware of the way Keith eyes flicker to follow the movement of his tongue, and Shiro feels the blush begin to spread across his cheeks.

A cough distracts him for a moment, but he doesn’t move. Keith is far too pretty to ever want to move away from him. But then Keith starts to turn pink too, lower lip caught by his teeth, the flesh blanching under the pressure. The sight makes lust pool deep in Shiro’s belly, because it is suddenly very easy to imagine Keith doing that whilst they touch in other places, instead of just their hands.

Their hands…

 _Oh gods!_ He is still standing in the tent holding Keith’s hands for absolutely no reason. And – a super quick flick up confirms – everyone and all the cameras are watching as the two of them stand six inches apart, blushing softly and smiling at each other. Neither of them has said anything in long enough for it to be super awkward for anyone observing, and of course, the whole country may as well be watching. Shiro wonders if there’s anyway all of this footage might just end up on the cutting room floor.

“The clock is ticking people!” Kolivan says in an unnecessarily loud voice, and Shiro and Keith break apart as though electrocuted.

Keith looks down at his sticky hands as though unsure what he’s supposed to do with them.

“I guess I’d better make more pastry…?”

“Yeah.” Shiro forces himself to speak normally and without gasping. It’s hard work. “Good plan, Keith.” It takes all his self-control to walk away and head towards the table where the presenters refreshments are situated. He gulps water from a bottle like a dying man.

“Thirsty?” Coran asks offhandedly.

Shiro very nearly chokes, and Coran has to go change his wet shirt.

*

It’s late.

Shiro knows full well that he should not be up at an hour extremely close to being tomorrow, sitting at the hotel bar with a thick, chilled tumbler, swirling two fingers of single match scotch around. Tomorrow they start two whole days of filming the semi-finals, and it’s going to be hard work. Mostly it’ll be hard for the bakers, but after the way he and Sanda had snapped at each other the previous week over who should go, Shiro knows that making sure the right three people get into the final isn’t going to be a piece of cake. And it’s not just that he has his favourite – he does and refuses to pretend otherwise – but he won’t let Sanda sabotage a young man’s hopes just because he gets on her nerves for no good reason. Sanda has wanted Keith off the show every week from the bread episode onwards, and each time he openly excels, her comments become more and more barbed.

At least that’s not something Shiro will have to worry about after this season finishes.

When the production company said they were signing over the show to another network, the four of them – Sanda, Coran, Kolivan and himself – had agreed instantly that if they followed the season to its new home, they would only do so together and only if all their requirements were met. For Kolivan, he wanted to ensure the show would continue its drive toward diversity of contestants and bringing good representation of other culture’s foods into the show. Coran is very vocal about the educational aspects of the show, especially the little side films which are cut into the main segments between rounds. Sanda said she wanted to ensure that the quality of the baking remained high so that the food did not become about style and visuals over the substance of flavour and texture. And Shiro’s main concern has always been doing good in the larger picture; nurturing new talent, bringing people on who demonstrate a love of baking, and sharing their skills with the world at large. Since the initial meeting, the new network have done their utmost to divide and conquer each presenter and judge individually.

And this week they have succeeded.

Sanda has signed on with the new network, and Shiro knows he’s not going to do the same. The terms offered to him aren’t right, and the new network is far more interested in exposition than education, and ethics doesn’t seem to be a word they’ve heard of. Whatever else happens, this will be the last season Shiro works on.

But it’s not just that. He’ll get to see Keith again tomorrow, which means it’s been a whole week since Shiro saw him, and he misses the boy’s sly little smiles like Lotor misses coffee – viscerally. Shiro takes another sip of his whiskey and thinks that he and Keith really need to have a conversation about this dance they are doing.

“Well, hey there Hotshot.”

Shiro swallows too soon and the alcohol burns its way down his throat. He coughs and splutters in the most undignified manner.

Keith is leaning against the bar next to him, elbows resting on the marble surface, long fingers poking out from his fingerless gloves, each line of his body accentuated by his tight black jeans and cropped red and white leather jacket. There is a deep red bandana looped around his throat like he’s just tugged it down from his face, and his hair is gently ruffled, bangs falling around his eyes.

Shiro stares.

“Earth to Shiro? Or are we only receiving signals from outer space today?”

Shiro swallows audibly.

“Keith…”

“Good evening. Or should I say morning? Fuck it’s late. What are you still doing up?”

“I…” Shiro can’t tear his eyes away from Keith, and the words he wants to say – _you’re beautiful, I’m so glad to see you, I missed you so much this week that it aches inside_ – stick in his throat as Keith takes the cold glass from his hands and sips. When he lowers it, the whiskey looks good on his lip.

“Thanks.”

“Hey…” Shiro takes his drink back, and absolutely doesn’t miss the way Keith’s hand lingers, fingers stroking his own. The nano sensors under the polymer exoskin are pretty good, and it feels like tiny sparks running through his brain in the very best way. “Hold up, what are you doing here so late?”

“I only just got in. Had a job run late at the garage and I couldn’t get away.”

“They wouldn’t let you leave early?” Shiro frowns, ready to attack anyone who would cause Keith additional stress when he is trying so hard to be successful at something he loves.

“Oh, no… we had a long term customer come in, and I always do his cars. I was just waiting on a part is all. It’s fine, Shiro.”

Shiro narrows his eyes.

“If you say so.”

“I do.” Keith’s elbow knocks against his as he sits down, and Shiro can’t help but fixate on the tiny distance between their bodies. “You can be my guard dog some other time.”

Keith winks. Shiro’s mouth is like the desert and all his blood heads south.

“Seriously though, can’t sleep?”

Shiro takes a swig of his drink, and decides he needs to give and good as he gets in this eternal cat and mouse game they’re playing.

“Why, you offering to help with that, too?”

This time, he gets to watch Keith blush, a plummy kind of pink-lilac colour staining his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Keith turns on his barstool, and Shiro feels physically hot as Keith rakes him with his beautiful galaxy eyes. Shiro is not above putting his best foot forward, so he turns too, spreading his knees just a little, arching his spine and flexing the arm which rests on the bar still. He knows he looks good, even if all anyone wants to talk about is his hair and his arm and the accident.

“Fuck…” Keith says with feeling. “Takashi...”

Shiro abandons his glass, letting his hands rest on the bar between them. Keith’s fingers find his instantly, stroking the crease of his palm as though trying to divine his future.

And just as Shiro is getting fully lost in Keith’s soft, private smile, the barman calls for last orders, and turns the backlights off behind the bar, and Keith jolts away from his touch as though burnt.

“So Shiro-”

Shiro hates to, but he cuts Keith off with a small shake of his head.

“I can’t.”

“Oh.” Keith looks and sounds completely crestfallen, and Shiro snatches up his hand again, squeezing tight.

“I want to. Fuck. I mean- I really want to know what you were going to say, and I really want to spend more time with you, and… and do a bunch of other things. But I can’t. Not whilst you’re still a competitor.”

“Oh. I mean- yeah.” Keith bites his lower lip, the motion both sweetly sad and also deeply arousing, and Shiro only realises the noise he’s made when Keith’s eyes flash up to his, wide with shock and joy. “Yeah?”

“ _Yeah_. Yes… Keith.”

Keith makes a noise which is akin to a purr.

“You’re going to do great this week,” Shiro assures him with another squeeze of Keith’s fingers. He needs to get his head back into his role as a judge of a national baking competition, because otherwise he’s going to do something stupid. “I can’t wait to see what you come up with.”

“You don’t want me to tank it?” There is a note of challenge in Keith’s tone which makes Shiro shiver bodily.

“No. I want you to prove how good you are to everyone else. I know it already.”

“You do, do you?”

“Keith…”

Keith squeezes his fingers in return before slipping free of Shiro’s grasp and stepping back.

“Save your praise for the tent, or leaving here is going to be… even more difficult.”

If Shiro didn’t know any better, he would say that the young man before him is doing everything he can to avoid saying or thinking the word ‘ _hard_ ’.

“See you tomorrow, Shiro.”

Shiro waits until Keith is on his feet again, then drains his drink.

“You’re going to do great things, Keith.”

The boy smirks.

“Only if you’re watching.”

Shiro takes this as an instruction, and follows Keith with his eyes, forcing himself to stay in his seat. It’s only when he sees the boy scoop up a black motorbike helmet with a red star splashed across the skull and a flame tinted visor, that he realises Keith must ride here.

The image of Keith in leather astride a motorbike does not allow him to sleep.

*

The showstopper challenge for the semi-final is one Shiro has been looking forward to. A themed gateau, and when Shiro listened to Keith explaining his idea, he had actually needed a moment compose himself from the excitement. Sanda thinks it will be a mess, that the boy has given himself far too much to do in four hours, but Shiro has faith in Keith and his abilities.

And he’s right to.

Because what Keith brings to the judging table with a flourish, is not just a gateau, but a mirror glazed entremet, accentuated with a spun sugar planet complete with rings which appear to float in in front of him, describing their orbital paths around the cake. The mirror glaze is set to a perfect high shine, which would be stunning all by itself, but Keith has somehow blended the deepest indigo, purples and softest pink as if they are watercolours, and flecked the cake with speckles of gold and white like the stars. Shiro is sure he can make out several constellations across the surface.

“Great patisserie should be something you eat with your eyes,” Kolivan intones, staring at the gateau.

“Shapely,” Coran adds with a smirk. “Inviting. Something which says ‘devour me’ in anyone’s language.”

“In a word… _that_.” Kolivan takes a step closer to the table, fork in hand. “I want it.”

“Wait your turn,” Keith retorts with a smile. “Judges first.”

“Keith… that looks amazing.” Shiro says with a long exhale. He can hardly believe he’s looking at a cake produced by an amateur baker.

“Well I suppose we’d better see what’s inside,” Sanda sighs, as though resigned to disaster.

The entremet cuts like a dream under Shiro’s knife, and he removes a perfect wedge slice displaying four pristine layers, encased in a thin even coating of faintly pink buttercream beneath the galaxy mirror shine. He switches for his fork, combing the tines across each textured layer before taking a bite.

There is a thin layer of zingy lemon sponge, a thick, beautifully smooth raspberry bavarois, then a vibrantly yellow layer of lemon gel – like a palette cleanser within the dessert – and then a textural delight of sweet white chocolate and creamy macadamia blondie to balance out the sharpness of the fruits. It is the best thing Shiro has put in his mouth in some years.

He stops, lays down his fork, and looks straight across the table at Keith.

“You’re amazing.” There is no time now to be coy and play it safe. The boy needs to know how talented he is. “You’re an incredible baker Keith. This is stunning.”

Keith blushes, pink and lavender purple like his galaxy glaze.

“Thank you?”

“I mean it. It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

Sanda has stopped to glare at him, and on his other side, Kolivan elbows Shiro in the ribs muttering.

“Cool it, Shiro. Breathe.”

But Shiro doesn’t care about the cameras, or the attention, or anything else much beside the shape of Keith trying to accept his praise whilst blushing furiously. He uses his fork to cut another bite from the cake slice, scooping up each perfect layer before holding it out across the table for Keith.

“You should try it, then you’ll believe me.”

Someone at the back of the tent mutters ‘oh no’, but Keith’s eyes fix on his as he leans forward, mouth open, a hint of his pink tongue flickering out as he accepts the fork Shiro is offering to him. For Shiro, nothing exists outside of the moment where Keith’s lips press together and an expression of bliss passes across his features. Shiro wants Keith to look at him like that.

“Oh my fucking god, Shiro. Get a hold of your verbal filter!” Kolivan hisses.

“Cut!” One of the production assistants looks pissed. “You know better than to swear by now.”

“Sorry, sorry.”

“Never mind. Let’s do a bit to camera whilst Keith takes his cake back to his bench.”

As much as he wants to keep his eyes on Keith, Shiro knows how to reframe his position, focus on the lens – make up for whatever the heck he just said – and speak to the viewer.

“Honestly, that cake really is as delicious on the inside as it is stunning on the outside. A masterpiece.”

“The space theme isn’t too tacky?”

Shiro knows better than to answer directly, after all, the questions are always cut from the segment, and he needs his statements need to be fully encapsulated.

“People always seem to think that a themed dessert is also a novelty dessert, and that they are childish and simple. Keith’s entremet is exactly the opposite of that. A dessert for adults.”

“And where would you serve such a thing? A wedding perhaps?”

Shiro allows himself to glance at the cake – back on Keith’s bench – before focusing on the camera and the question.

“Yes. Yes- sorry.” He pauses, and starts again. “Though it could be eaten in any number of luxurious settings, I really do think Keith’s bake would make a wonderful alternative wedding cake to the traditional tiered design. If I wanted a wedding cake… if I wanted to get married, I’d have Keith-”

There is a clatter as Coran drops the fork he was holding, and Shiro’s brain catches up with his mouth.

“ _-I mean I’d have Keith's cake_! The cake. I’d want a _cake_ like that at my wedding!”

Shiro can feel the way the camera pans and zooms over his shoulder, and he turns in time to see Romelle rolling her eyes.

“The cake?” she murmurs. “ _Riiiight_.”

Coran and Kolivan are both staring, wide eyed, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Keith is nowhere to be seen, and just as Shiro is getting worried, Hunk bends over by Keith’s bench, looking concerned.

“Hey buddy. You OK? You want a paper bag to calm your breathing?”

Great. Shiro’s just made the boy he definitely knows that he’s probably falling in love with, hyperventilate in the kitchen. He hides behind his prosthetic hand, gripping his temples in despair. Beside him, Sanda exhales loudly and with distinct aggravation.

“ _Absolutely_ no professionalism at all. I can’t believe I have to put up with this nonsense.”

Keith appears from behind his bench, and what Shiro can see of his face from hiding behind his hair, he is crimson like Lotor’s beetroot red velvet cake. Shiro makes a noise of pain, wondering how Keith will ever forgive him for such an overstep of boundaries.

“I am a Cordon Bleu chef, dammit. Is this what my career has really come to?” Sanda rolls her eyes. “Don’t expect me to babysit you next season, Shirogane.”

Shiro bristles. Even after four years the woman can’t pronounce his name correctly.

Thankfully, the camera techs decide they’ve got everything they want, and Shiro, Coran, Kolivan, and Sanda retire to their private tent, where they will do a recorded conversation about who should stay and who should go. Coran has got his features back under control by the time they sit down, so he starts.

“So, who is in the danger zone this week?”

“Keith,” Sanda says instantly.

Shiro gapes at her.

“On what grounds?”

“An entremet is not a _cake_.”

Before Shiro can leap down her throat, Kolivan coughs pointedly into his fist.

“He had a sponge layer, icing, glazing. Even in the broadest of terms, his dessert is a gateau, which is what the challenge asked for. Specifics were not given on the exact layers and construction.”

“Well, they should have been,” Sanda huffs.

“It is not the purpose of the competition to constrain the bakers,” Coran reminds her.

Shiro doubts any of this conversation is going to make in into the episode.

“I want him gone.” Sanda glares at Shiro. “The boy is a distraction. He should have been gotten rid of in those first few weeks.”

“For what, precisely?” Shiro snaps back. “He has progressed consistently, been adventurous with his flavours, excelled with new technical skills, shown bravery with unfamiliar recipes despite his age-”

“This is exactly my problem!” Sanda interrupts. “You obviously favour him. The viewers will be able to tell. It’ll be bad for the show.”

To Shiro’s surprise, there is a Kolivan shaped echo when he speaks.

“As though you care about what’s good for the show.”

Sanda’s steely glare flicks between them, and her mouth settles into a thin, hard line.

“The three of you are fools for waiting so long to sign your contracts. Honestly, it like you have no forward-thinking vision at all.”

Shiro exchanges a meaningful glance with his friends, and slumps back in his chair to let Coran take the lead. For all that people think Coran is exuberant and an over enthusiastic mess, there is a man with a core of steel hiding under the colourfully camp exterior.

“We’re not _waiting_ to sign the contracts, Sanda. We’re not signing them. We _were_ waiting, and negotiating, and then you went ahead and dumped the rest of us.”

“What? No I didn’t-”

“Yes, you did.” Kolivan folds his arms, tossing the length of his braid over his shoulder. “We agreed Sanda, right at the beginning, about the things which mattered to us, which we wanted this show to embody. And you abandoned that.”

“You were all too idealistic! The network would never have gone for it.”

“You don’t know that!”

“If you wait, they will find other people to replace you.” Sands says it like it’s an ultimatum, but the words don’t land with any force.

After the last technical bake, Shiro had snuck away into the extensive gardens with Coran and Kolivan, and they’d commiserated and consoled each other, and then decided – once and for all – not to sign on with the new network for the _‘updated and improved’_ version of the show. The network’s idea of the new show didn’t have the nurturing of keen and excited talent at its heart, and Shiro has no interest in being mean to people, or being anywhere where he needs to spend any time or breathing space with Sanda.

He says so.

“You ignorant little upstart! And you two, siding with him!” Sanda rolls her eyes and makes a gesture of irritation which nearly threatens to topple the secondary camera set up on a tripod to her left. The fact this entire conversation is getting recorded does not escape Shiro. He groans.

“You are really going to throw your careers away on this? You fools!”

“Some things are worth more than money, Sanda.”

“That _boy_ certainly isn’t.”

Shiro stands with a scraping of his chair which makes everyone wince.

“You don’t get to say one single word about Keith. He’s not leaving, and you’re outvoted.”

“Shi-”

“No. This conversation is over.”

It takes all of Shiro’s self-control not to shout, not to go completely feral in defence of the young man he’s pretty certain he’s in love with, and turn to walk out of the little tent.

*

Romelle wins star baker, Lotor is sent home amid tears and hugs, Keith looks softly proud and like he’s trying not to cry when Lotor holds him by the shoulders and beams with pride.

Shiro watches from the side lines, thumbs hooked into the pockets of his jeans, with an expression just a little bit smug. And he does not miss it each time Keith looks over with his dark eyes and hot smile. And if he preens just a little bit, well, at least the cameras aren’t rolling any more.

  
  



	5. Keith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the final!

The three finalists don’t get to go home right away, and after waving Lotor off Keith finds himself being directed back to the main tent to complete his ‘excited to be in the final’ to-camera piece, which he does whilst leaning against the canvas covered column which holds up the marquee. He is excited, for sure, but it hasn’t sunk in yet, and all Keith really wants to do is have a long shower and curl up for twelve solid hours of sleep. Or perhaps drag Shiro back to his hotel room and fuck his brains out.

He flushes at the thought, and then again when the camera tech coughs loudly, reminding him that he really should be saying something, rather than staring with open desire across the marquee at Shiro. But it’s not like he’s the only one at fault, because Shiro smirks whenever Keith catches his eye, and the way he reaches up to rub at the back of his hair – flexing his bicep – cannot be accidental.

“Have you got your list?” One of the production assistants asks, stopping by his work bench.

Keith snaps back to reality, which is disappointing considering what is playing through his imagination.

“Sorry? What list?”

“The people we need to contact and interview for your backstory piece? We have to complete the filming before the final starts next weekend.”

“Oh.” Keith deflates. He’s been dreading this question, but even this morning he didn’t actually believe that he’d reach the final. “No. I mean, there is no list.”

“Well, chop chop and get one written. Email addresses and phone numbers please Keith.”

Aware that by now, people are looking at him, Keith shuffles his feet and sticks both hands into his jacket pockets before answering.

“I don’t have anyone for you to film. Sorry.”

He winces as Sanda’s voice cuts across the tent, making him duck behind his bangs.

“Is there no one you can think of? Your parents?”

“No.”

“Friends then?” Sanda approaches his bench, and Keith slips quickly round to the other side. He needs to keep space and physical objects between them, lest he lose his temper. “A grandparent?” Keith remains silent. “There must be someone,” she demands.

Keith tracks his gaze across the room avoiding her. Romelle makes a soothing gesture, moving quickly to his side. He grabs for her hand blindly.

“Do you literally know no people?” Sanda challenges.

The acid in her voice is cut through by Shiro’s dark tone when he steps forward.

“Sanda. Leave it.”

Keith doesn’t actually hear the words Sanda spits back at her fellow judge, because his brain is playing the track of himself saying ‘ _I don’t have anyone_ ’ over and over again like a terrible scratched record. Romelle squeezes his fingers, and Keith focuses on that, trying to measure his breaths, becoming increasingly uncomfortable as Sanda snips at Shiro, and he tries to placate her without resorting to physical force.

“Keith?” It’s Kolivan who pulls him out of his head, smiling gently but without pity. “Who have you been feeding all your practice bakes to Keith?”

It is finally a question Keith knows what to do with.

“Well, I try one, to test how well it went, and then the rest I take to a charity. There is a place locally to me that provides respite care to people with terminal illnesses, and their families.”

“You give it all away?” Coran clarifies, his voice full of surprised warmth.

“Yes?”

Shiro blinks at him, clearly surprised that Keith’s never mentioned this in all their interactions.

“Is that why you never bake anything with nuts, Keith?”

That Shiro has noticed makes him flush softly, and his grip on Romelle’s fingers becomes less fierce and desperate. She shakes the hand in her grasp, beaming with excitement.

“Well, yeah.” Keith shrugs, self-deprecating. “What’s the point if it doesn’t benefit as many people as possible?”

There is a welcome beat of silence, and then – like a cheese grater to the soul – Sanda picks up the original thread of the conversation. She is a dog with bone that just won’t quit.

“So, there’s _not one person_ we can talk to about your history or your-”

“Fucking hell, Sanda!” Everyone freezes. Shiro doesn’t swear, and his tone is never that darkly angry. “Just drop it. Leave the guy alone.”

“He should-”

“The producers will work something out. That’s their job. You are not here to cross examine Keith!”

For a long moment, Sanda looks like she’s going to say something back, but then she simply takes a deep breath, sneers at Shiro, and stalks off.

“It’s been and long a stressful day,” Coran announces, seemingly apropos to nothing. “I suggest everyone goes home and gets some decent rest before they begin practising for the final. Only five days to go kids!”

Romelle keeps close to his side as they exit the tent. It’s getting late in the afternoon, and Keith prefers not to drive for three hours in the dark if he can help it. But he also doesn’t trust himself to get immediately on his bike.

“Well… that could have gone better.”

“Are you kidding?” For a big guy, Hunk sure knows how to sneak up without being heard. Keith near enough jumps clean out of his skin. “We’re finalists!”

“God… we actually are.” Romelle blinks in surprise. “How did that happen?”

Keith finds himself caught up in Hunk’s expansive hug, and for the first time, he finds he doesn’t mind so much.

“You two are excellent bakers and I’m the judge’s pet?” Keith retorts. His bad joke earns him a shake from Hunk and an eye roll from Romelle. He grins to himself.

“What do you think the technical will be?” Hunk sounds way too excited for someone who just spent four hours baking and the same amount of time being judged and interviewed.

Romelle and Keith cuff him lightly in unison.

“Can’t you think about anything else for two seconds?”

“Hey, I have the luxury of a long train ride home.” Hunk looks deeply self-satisfied. “I’m gonna practice my Danish pastry designs for next week.”

“On the train?” Keith asks in puzzlement.

Hunk grins.

“Playdoh has to be good for something! I borrowed it off my little sister.

“I am going to put off all thoughts of pastry until at least tomorrow,” Romelle declares with feeling. “And you Keith?”

“He’s gonna make heart eyes over Shiro, obviously.”

“Hey!”

Hunk arches an eyebrow.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you aren’t thinking about having him on the back of your bike right now.”

Keith can’t, and Hunk crows good-naturedly.

“Try not to spend too much time daydreaming about the silver fox, Keith!” Hunk claps them both on the back, and Keith feels like all the air was forced from his lungs. And yet Hunk can create tiny, fragile delicacies, and make it look easy. He is a conundrum. “See you in five days guys!”

*

Five days, seven batches of Danish pastries, and two full run throughs – neither of which were completed in the time – of his final showstopper later, Keith is heading back into the tent. It’s been both the longest and shortest five days of his entire life, because as usual, he’s not seen or heard from Shiro since last leaving the marquee. Whatever happens over the next two days, Keith knows that something is going to change between them.

Now, he stands at his bench – the one at the back, which is where he prefers to be – and listens as Coran talks them through the first challenge. He knows he should be making appropriate facial reactions for the cameras, but they’ve already memorized all the details of this signature bake and he’s always been crap at acting anyway. Instead he allows his eyes to slide across to Shiro.

Once again, Shiro’s entire person seems to have been specially crafted to extract maximum levels of thirst, specifically from Keith. A dove grey shirt with the sleeves carefully rolled up to his elbows, showing off the strong muscles of his forearm and the intricate, highly buffed plates of his prosthetic, the fabric tucked into black jeans which accentuate how fucking tiny Shiro’s waist is in relation to his broad shoulders. His silver hair looks effortlessly styled and perfectly cool, and the smile he shoots Keith has him gripping the wooden surface of his work bench with white knuckles. He _will not_ groan aloud on national television.

“You have two and a half hours for your Danish pastries!” Coran declares. “Ready?”

“Get set.” Kolivan grins.

“BAKE!” they announce together.

Keith wastes another ten seconds staring stupidly at Shiro beaming at him, before his brain catches up with his hands and he wraps his self-control around his libido, and stuffs them both back into his pants before he makes a complete fool of himself.

Time to bake.

*

Keith would be lying if he said that he didn’t want to win. Of course, he wants to win. But competitive or not, his life flashes before his eyes as he reads the instructions given to them for their final technical challenge.

_Bake a Victoria sponge filled with raspberry jam and iced with vanilla buttercream._

That’s it. He turns the paper over – again – just to check, and then whimpers at the same time as Romelle curses loudly, causing all the camera techs to groan as the shot goes out the window.

And it wouldn’t be so bad, except they have all been given the same tin to use, but they have a choice of other ingredients. Three different sizes of eggs, two different types of flour, three raising agents, three different sugars. There is butter, margarine, and a baking spread Keith really isn’t sure of at all. He feels his vision go fuzzy at the edges. It’s almost a relief Shiro isn’t here to see him panic sweat over a cake.

“Remember bakers, you only have fifty minutes on this challenge,” Kolivan reminds them.

Shit.

“Best get a move on. You OK, Keith?”

“Wondering why I ever decided to do this, to be honest.” Keith breaks three eggs into the bowl of his scales. He can do this.

“And why did you?” Kolivan leaves him space not to answer, because he is busy, and Keith feels the lack of tension. It’s his only excuse for what comes next.

“For a chance to show off to the hottest guy ever to grace a kitchen? Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Silence. Keith finishes weighing out his butter and sugar, and blinks up at the camera. The person holding it is gaping at him.

“I’m done pretending. You all have eyes. He’s hot, so sue me.” Keith turns back to his stand mixer. “Let’s bake!”

*

After the judging of the technical, Keith hugs Hunk and Romelle goodbye before they head back to the hotel, but he lingers around the outside of the marquee as the producers tidy and set up for the following day. It doesn’t take long for the others to exit, and Keith knows that Kolivan and Coran pretend not to see him deliberately. It’s like a covert blessing, and Keith is grateful. He shoves his hands in his pockets, resisting the urge to pace, but in the next breath a warm, heavy hand lands on his shoulder, thumb folding the edge of his collar and creeping across the back of his neck.

“You wanna go for a walk?” Keith says, without looking around.

“Yeah, that’d be nice Keith.” The way Shiro says his name makes his spine quiver.

They walk together, inches apart, out across the vast rolling lawns to a sparse grouping of ancient trees, and Keith sits, dangling his legs over the stone wall of the ha-ha. When Shiro settles next to him, Keith has the feeling their thighs are only not touching because Shiro is keeping them deliberately half an inch apart. Keith bites his lip, leans back on one hand, and gazes at the perfectly coiffed black sheep cropping the green grass. The sunlight streams through the trees, low and gold over the landscape. Keith loves the way their elongated shadows look together.

“Last challenge of the final tomorrow,” he says. It’s not what he wants to say.

“Yeah. You’re going to do great Keith.”

“Thank you.” Keith takes a deep breath. “Shiro, after the final- OW!” Keith rubs his head, glaring up into the branches above them. Rustling between the oak leaves, a fat squirrel blinks down at him before scurrying away. “Dammit.”

Shiro scoops up the dropped acorn – still green – and cradles it in the palm of his prosthetic hand.

“You know, you can make coffee out of acorns,” he says conversationally.

“Really? Do you think we should have made some for Lotor?” That earns him a snorted laugh, and Keith grins. “Seriously though, is it anything like coffee?”

“Apparently it sucks slightly less than just boiled water?” Shiro shrugs, then lobs the acorn out into the field. “Maybe it will grow a new tree – if the sheep don’t eat it that is.”

“Maybe…” Keith bites his lip and resists the urge to close the scant half-inch of space between their bodies by leaning into Shiro. “Do you like coffee, Shiro?”

“I prefer tea.” Shiro turns, the way he leans back echoing Keith’s own pose, and Keith tracks the way his throat moves when he swallows, following the bob of his adam’s apple before resting in the hollow of his clavicle. He wants to reach out and touch, or kiss, or drink up all of Shiro’s scent and textures and never ever let him go. “But I have this feeling that’s not what you were asking me?”

“Shiro…”

“Keith.”

There doesn’t seems to be any reason why either of them has spoken, except that Keith can’t think of any word better than the other man’s name; and there’s nothing he wants more in his mouth right now than some part of Shiro, even if it’s only this. Shiro’s lips turn up in a smile – not a camera smile – but something small and soft and just for Keith, and Keith feels himself blush. Shiro drags the tip of his pink tongue over the soft pillow of his lower lip, and Keith is certain his internal temperature rises by a measurable number of degrees.

“Shiro, I-”

“You’re so pretty Keith.”

Keith swears his vision goes blurry for a moment as all the blood in his body rushes south. His jeans feel tight.

“God, Shiro. You can’t just say things like that.”

“You don’t want me to tell you you’re pretty?” Shiro asks, feigning total innocence.

It might have worked, maybe, if Keith couldn’t see the way Shiro is looking at him, his grey gaze raking up and down Keith’s body as he grins. Keith takes the opportunity to look as well, and discovers that Shiro definitely tucks left, and that he is as broad and gifted between the thighs as he is everywhere else.

“Fuck.”

“Mmmm…” Shiro flexes, long legs stretching out for a moment, thighs spreading just a fraction but maintaining the unspoken no-body-contact policy between them. “Yes, please.”

Keith is sure he knows some words in the English language. He’s certain of that fact. He can speak and read and write and everything. Despite this, all that comes out of his mouth now is a strangled;

“Hnnnngh!” And then he swallows his own tongue.

Keith dares to glance over again, and Shiro preens, chest puffed out and straining against the three little buttons of his Henley. Keith has never wanted to jump anyone more in his entire life. Shiro is a jerk, and he knows exactly what he is doing. Keith takes a breath, and decides that the international star of modern baking can take it just as good as he gives it.

“The sunset is nice.” He fights to keep his voice level, nonchalant. “You look really good like that, Shiro.”

“Yeah?” Shiro obviously attempts to sound cocky, but the blush across his cheeks is telling, and Keith realises that he’s not the only one bad at taking praise.

“Yeah. Bet you’re going to look even better by moonlight.”

“Keith…”

“You’re a big guy.” It’s a statement, not a question. “Bet your bed is huge.”

Shiro’s eyes go dark with the dilation of his pupils.

“Keith…”

Keith smirks, holding Shiro’s gaze as he drags his tongue across the sharp edge of his teeth.

“I wonder how strong it is.”

“Ungh-!”

Keith exhales, long and slow, and rests his elbows on his knees as he leans forward, watching the sunset, giving Shiro time to recover. He knows that when they stand up, neither of their outfits are going to fully cover their arousal.

“I can’t wait for tomorrow.”

Shiro’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder once more. It’s the safe touch, the one which feels familiar, and though Keith wants to lean into him, he resists.

“You’ve got something special planned?” Shiro asks, eyes sparkling in the gold light of the sinking sun.

“Heck yeah. Get ready, Takashi. I’m gonna blow you away.”

*

The final three bakers have five hours to produce a picnic hamper each, filled to the brim with their choice of savoury and sweet bakes, including at least one kind of bread, pastry, and centrepiece cake. Four the first half hour, the three of them work like maniacs, and the hosts, judges, and camera techs leave them alone to work and weigh things out. By the time they make it around to Keith, he is mixing up the batter for his chilli and chocolate cake almost without having to look at it.

“Well Keith, this all looks lovely.” Coran makes an expansive gesture and the camera lens follows the array of ingredients on Keith’s bench. “And do I detect a theme here?”

“You do.” Keith grins, because the fastest possible glance at Shiro shows him that the other man is standing just a little too close to be considered polite in company, and the heat radiating from him produces a welcome, answering sensation in the pit of Keith’s stomach. He turns his attention back to Kolivan. “Before he died, my dad used to take me for these great long hikes out into the countryside. And these weren’t ‘stuff a protein bar and some trail mix in your pocket style hikes’, oh no. Dad used to bring a little camp stove and a pan, and we’d heat up rocks we found to fry our flatbreads on, and he’d make us build-your-own tacos. We’d sit on the ground overlooking whatever view we’d hiked to, and eat all the ingredients he’d brought – so that the pack was lighter on the walk home.”

“That’s a lovely memory, Keith.” Coran sounds genuinely a little teary. “So, fancy tacos for your dad, and what else will you be treating us to?”

“It’s a sunset picnic.” Keith scrapes his finely diced and de-seeded chilli into the bowl of his mixer before beginning to beat in the rest of the flour. On the stove, the cream for his ganache steams gently. “There’s the tacos and the cake, custard tarts, strawberry shortcake – because what is a good picnic without strawberries? - and goats cheese and rosemary buns with herby butter.”

“That’s two types of bread.” Kolivan points out, having sidled over to join them.

“Yes. And there’s a surprise inside the cake.”

“What kind of surprise?”

Keith smirks openly.

“If I tell you, then it’s not a surprise, is it?”

Coran nods sagely, but quirks his bushy moustache as he taps his chin.

“But why ‘sunsets’?”

Keith stops his myriad of tasks long enough to give Shiro a knowing look, and the judge blushes hard, his gaze sliding to the floor.

“Oh, no reason,” Keith says lightly. “Sunsets are just really nice. _Everyone_ looks their best at sunset.”

*

Even before the judging, Keith knows he isn’t going to win. Everything is finished – and fully cooked thanks to whatever deity of baked goods resides in the tent – but the only thing which looks near professional is the main cake and the tacos. Romelle’s _spring time hamper_ is a delight of colours and textures, and Keith feels like crying when Shiro presses a finger into the dough of her chocolate studded brioche and tells her sadly that it is raw.

But Hunk’s _coconut supreme_ is a marvel. Keith knows just by looking, and then he, Romelle and Kolivan all nibble greedily and with increasingly loud noises of pleasure at Hunk’s leftovers, whilst the judges do their thing. With quiet, skilful determination, Hunk has married the traditional Samoan flavours of his childhood with British picnic classics and Keith wants to continue eating his mackerel and coconut _not_ -sausage rolls until he bursts.

When it’s his turn to be judged, Keith braces himself for Sanda’s cutting remarks as he places his cake stand down upon the gingham alter.

“You promised us a surprise.” Shiro picks up the shiny cake knife. “Any last words?”

“Dare you.”

Shiro nostrils flare, his jaw tight, and Keith knows the man is keeping himself from replying with an even more flirtatious comeback. Instead, he angles the blade and slices the cake clean in half. Upon pulling it away, Keith breathes a sigh of relief that his surprise actually worked, and somewhere behind him, Romelle sighs in a swoony kind of manner.

“Oh, Keith…”

There is a bright red cherry sponge heart sitting proudly in the centre of the cake, the layers of chilli chocolate sponge and chocolate ganache cut and shaped to fit around it. Shiro looks dumbstruck, his cheeks and the tips of his ears as red as the cake, and Keith preens.

“Surprise.”

After the tasting, the three of them load up with their hampers, and – trailed by a production assistant who carries what they can’t – they head out of the tent and onto the main lawns to great the great British summer picnic which has been organised for the final. Each finalist has a table for their friends and family, and Romelle’s parents and small dog rise noisily and eagerly to greet her as she holds her spring fruits cake - decorated with edible flowers and candied violets – aloft.

Keith turns to his table, because all the food in his arms is heavy, expecting to see it empty. But it is not.

“KEITH!”

All the other previous bakers – who Keith knows are invited to the event anyway – have abandoned their plus ones, their children, and their pets, to assemble at his table, each with wide arms and ready smiles. Whilst he stands there, swaying with the shock, Romelle and Hunk – now freed of their picnic hampers – come up beside him to hold him up.

“Surprise,” Romelle whispers in his ear, kissing his cheek.

“Wha-”

“I think we make a pretty good stand-in family,” Lance is busy congratulating himself and everyone else and Keith finds that he doesn’t mind one bit. “Ulaz can be father-”

“No thank you!”

“-and pour the tea. Keith, feed us!”

And Keith can’t do anything other than comply, and laugh. As everyone digs into his tacos, praise is groaned around full mouths, and his cheeks ache from the width of his smile.

*

It’s a full hour later before Coran, Kolivan, Shiro and Sanda emerge from the marquee, having no doubt judged and deliberated and quite probably argued before deciding upon a result. Keith and the others have had to do their ‘ _how would I feel if I won_ ’ pieces for the camera, and Keith has actually gotten to try all the things he made before spending most of his time shaking hands and being hugged as the other bakers introduce him to their families. Without exception, each one of them greets him like a long lost relative, finally returning home.

The other bakers line up behind them, a little crescent of support and adoration, and Keith doesn’t miss how close Lance and Allura stand, as Romelle, Hunk, and himself step forwards at Kolivan’s behest.

“Ten weeks, thirty gruelling challenges, more baked goods than even I could possibly eat-” This gets a chuckle from the crowd. “But you have made it, and baked your hearts out, all the way to the final. I am so proud of you all, and you should be proud of yourselves.”

Keith smiles, and each of them takes a deep breath. Keith knows it’s not him, but his heart bangs about against his ribs like crazy regardless.

“The winner, of this year’s competition is-” There is a pause, the bit where Keith knows the camera will cut to and from his face, Romelle’s, Hunk’s, and their hands clasped to each other tightly. “HUNK!”

The crowd explodes, Hunk falls to his knees, dragging Romelle and Keith with him, and the pair of them wrap their arms around the big guy just before all the others come crashing down over them with celebratory affection. Hunk is hyperventilating with joy in his ear, and Keith finds his face, meets his soft brown eyes and grins.

“ _Yes_ Hunk, you won!”

It takes a little while for everyone to sort themselves out enough to allow the finalists to stand up again, and then it’s fresh round of hugs and cheers and Hunk crying all over again as they are presented with bouquets of flowers bigger than Keith’s torso. Hunk clasps his bouquet in one hand, the beautiful cut glass cake trophy of the competition in the other, and sobs his way through his thanks and joy and disbelief at having won. Keith smiles, but he doesn’t miss the way a tall, handsome man sidles up to him.

“The right man won,” Keith says, and feels not the slightest hint of disappointment that it wasn’t him.

“Yeah, the right person definitely won.” Shiro’s hand lands on his shoulder, then cups the back of his neck, and Keith turns to look up at Shiro’s bright eyed smile. “And I quit.”

And all of a sudden, Keith’s world is tilting on its axis as Shiro’s other hand curves around his hip, and he grasps the other man by both jacket lapels as he is dipped. Their mouths slot together, and Keith moans into the kiss, all the other good things he’s ever tasted forgotten under the sweet, warm, perfect pressure of Shiro kissing him. Somewhere, someone – probably Lance – whoops and hollers, people clap and gasp, and Keith _knows_ there are at least three cameras point at him right now. He resists the urge to give them all the finger – but only because there are small children present.

When Shiro sets him back on his feet, he doesn’t step back or let go and neither does Keith.

“I quit,” Shiro repeats.

“I heard.”

“Fuck, you taste amazing.”

Keith grins, and hauls Shiro lips down to his once more.

“Heck yeah I do.”

Their second kiss is disrupted by Hunk and Romelle – who have abandoned their trophies and flowers – crashing into them with hugs and shrieks of delight.

“YES!”

“FINALLY!”

And-

“Yes Keith, get in there!” Which might have been Kinkade or Griffin or possibly both.

This time Keith does give them the finger, but he’s laughing too, and Shiro is holding his face and kissing him and Keith’s bouquet is somewhere under his feet and he absolutely does not care. They do not break apart until they’re both short of breath and panting for air.

“So,” Keith manages between huffs, “you liked the cake then?”

“You brat.”

Keith growls, and yanks Shiro’s hips flush to his own.

“Say that again, big guy. I’m stronger than I look.”

Shiro flushes, eyes wide. It sets Keith’s heart alight in his chest.

“Care to come for a ride, pretty boy?”

Shiro nods enthusiastically, but when Keith tugs his hand, he frowns, still blushing

“ _Now_?”

“On the bike,” Keith explains, loving the way Shiro actually manages to look even more embarrassed by this explanation. “How do you think I got here?”

They make it to Keith’s bike eventually, pausing to allow each other to indulge in as many kisses as is feasible. Keith jerks his thumb at the shiny red Honda in the parking lot.

“On you get, big guy. And maybe later I'll give you a ride on something even better.”

Neither of them look back.


	6. Shiro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what happens afterwards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was supposed to be a 2 paragraph epilogue.... oops.

“Babe! Come on, it’s starting!” Shiro settles himself further back into the corner of their deep couch, one leg bent along the back cushions, the other foot resting on the floor. He double taps the cushion between his thighs just as there is a clatter from the kitchen. “Everything OK?”

“Fine!”

Shiro recognises that clipped tone, the one that says _‘something has gone wrong right at the last second and I need to concentrate in order to fix it, so I love you but please shut up’_ and says nothing. He takes a swig of his cider – light, local, kind of fruity and sweet in that way the man he loves enjoys – and dials the volume up on the television just as the familiar music swells, heralding gingham, green lawns, a white marquee, and patriotic bunting. It’s the final episode, Coran and Kolivan are telling them as much from the screen, but Shiro’s attention wanders to the doorway where Keith is walking in, dressed is one of Shiro’s enormously oversized hoodies and apparently nothing else from where Shiro is sitting, carrying a plate of very familiar pastry rolls.

“Is that-?”

“Yep.” Keith pops the end of the syllable as he settles himself in his favourite spot between Shiro’s legs, shoulders warm and hard against Shiro’s chest. “Hunk gave me the recipe.”

“Thank you, Hunk.” Shiro grins as he loops an arm around Keith’s tiny waist, using the motion to filch a mackerel and coconut not-sausage roll before splaying his other hand low over Keith’s abdomen, pinning him softly in place. “And thank you Keith.”

“You’re welcome. Are they as good as Hunk’s ones?”

“I’m sure they are, baby. Hush now, you’re gonna miss it.”

Keith snorts in derision.

“We know what happens, Takashi. It’s hardly a surprise.”

It still makes Shiro shiver all the way down to his tail-bone every single time Keith uses his given name.

They hosted a watch party for the first episode, with as many of them as were still in the country, including Kolivan and Coran, packed into their living room, each bringing baked offerings to compliment the alcohol selections Coran had insisted on providing. Watching himself on screen surrounded by such a group of friends had been equally wonderful and hilariously uncomfortable. There had been squeals of voyeuristic delight as he and Keith had laid eyes on each other on screen for the first time.

Each week they have sat together and watched as the show on screen has become less and less about the baking, and more and more about catching the lingering glances between the pair of them. From week five onward, all the side interviews and bits-to-camera which made it off the cutting room floor have had some element of support or speculation about their relationship.

Shiro eats his pastry, and watches himself judging the signature challenge on screen.

“Thace sent us a photo.”

“Oh?”

Keith shows him over his shoulder, half twisting in Shiro’s lap. Ulaz’s husband has quite clearly been usurped, and is sat on the floor with their enormous wolfhound, whilst Ulaz and Lotor have claimed the sofa, both gazing enraptured at their television.

“He says he’s sure that space on the couch used to be his before they adopted Lotor.”

Shiro chuckles, and squeezes Keith tightly in his lap.

“I’m glad he has them to support him. Professional patisserie school is hard.”

“He spent the whole of last week stretching filo pastry out to the size of his bed.” Shiro can feel Keith roll his eyes. “He’s such a perfectionist.”

“Says the man who re-made an entire batch of cinnamon buns because they weren’t quite spiralled enough.”

“Remind me why I love you again?”

Shiro chuckles.

“I have really nice abs?”

“Mmm… Keith rolls over onto his front, and Shiro’s breath catches as he finds himself the focus of that galaxy-eyed gaze. Keith sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and the wet release of shiny flesh has Shiro blushing hard. “You do,” he agrees, “and a really pretty bottom.”

“Keith…”

Keith grins like a cat.

“I love that I can still make you blush.”

Keith remains pillowed on his chest as they watch the show. Somewhere between the technical and the baker-family interviews, Shiro’s phone pings enough times for him to glance at the screen.

“Texts from Lance,” he explains, scrolling down the many messages and the pictures attached. “We’re trending on twitter again.”

Keith snorts.

“I never figured we’d end up with our own palindrome. What’s the hashtag this week?”

“#KeithsCuteBlushes.”

“Ergh.”

“What?” Shiro lifts Keith’s chin with a curled metal and polymer knuckle. “I think you have an incredibly cute blush.”

“You’re biased,” Keith reminds him, as though that matters at this stage. “Did anyone notice that all my ‘family’ interviews are actually from the other bakers?”

Shiro checks his phone. He doesn’t go on social media himself any more, but Lance has actually been a godsend in that regard; keeping them both assailed of the latest updates, and fiercely fighting their corner whenever people begin casting their aspersions too loudly.

“Some, Lance is in your corner though. He still takes his job as your rival very seriously.”

“Just because he couldn’t get #Allurance trending,” Keith scoffs fondly. “Oh look, you’re gonna cut the cake.”

Shiro knows Keith is watching him closely as he watches himself on screen, cutting Keith’s chilli and chocolate cake to reveal the love heart in the centre. The shock on his face is as obvious to him as the heated press of his anatomy pinned between their bodies. When he glances back at Keith, he looks impossibly fond.

“And do you still love me?”

“Keith…” Shiro ducks to kiss him and Keith meets him half way, dragging their bodies together, causing delightful little moans of pleasure. “Yes, baby. I love you.”

“Mmm…” Keith kisses him again, slow and languid and deeply happy. “Tasty Takashi… I love you too.”

“Oh good.”

On screen, the crowd at the picnic goes nuts as they share their first kiss. Shiro’s phone will be on fire with missed notifications, but he doesn’t care, because the boy in his arms is everything he could ever want.

Before the credits roll, the screen goes black with white text.

_Since the competition finished…_

_Nadia and Ryan have teamed up to travel the world and learn about baking from as many different countries as they can._ There’s a shot of the pair of them laughing together in a kitchen in southern Turkey, covered in flour and holding enormous handfuls of pistachios.

 _Ulaz and his husband are assisting Lotor in his dreams of becoming a professional pastry chef… until he earns a Michelin star, he is kept busy feeding the group of blacksmiths who appear to have adopted him._ Lotor looks happy and focused his video clip, and he has a mug of coffee held tightly in one hand whilst he offers a tray of tiny tartlets to Thace. Ulaz is shown creaming eggs and sugar together with a wooden spoon in a traditional beige ceramic mixing bowl, and Shiro knows it’s the one his grandmama gave him, because that’s just how Ulaz is.

 _Ina and James have set up a programme to teach baking to disadvantaged kids._ The video clip shows the both of them utterly surrounded by eager faces and hands, all voice raised is excitement of making tasty treats. Kolivan helped with the connections to get them started, and it’s a good thing they’re doing.

 _Lance is teaching Allura how to use raising agents properly whilst they work on raising a little one of their own._ And Lance has his arms wrapped around Allura, cradling her thickening belly as he whispers instructions she almost certainly doesn’t need into her ear. They are adorable. Maybe Lance will get his hashtag trending after all.

 _Keith and Shiro are getting married next year._ It’s the clip of them kissing which plays again, overlain this time with the soft piano music of the segment.

 _Hunk will be catering all the desserts and breads, but Romelle won the right to make the wedding cake in an arm-wrestling match… It will still be themed for outer space, just like Shiro wanted._ And there’s the entremet with the galaxy mirror glaze and the spun sugar planet. Since the episode originally aired, there have been dozens of copy-cat recipes all claiming to have perfected Keith’s dessert. In Shiro’s opinion, none of them even come close.

 _Keith and Romelle are setting up a bakery together, they have assured Lotor they will always serve coffee._ It’s a work in progress, being finalists of the show doesn’t automatically infer success, or the successful application for business loans, but Shiro has high hopes for them.

 _Hunk is on a mission to bring Samoan flavours to the world… but for now, he’s going to rest._ And there is Hunk, seemingly passed out on the grassy lawn, flowers and cake stand clutched to his chest, surrounded by his family.

Keith breathes a soft laugh against his lips

“Still think the best man won?”

“Who knows. But I know I won.” Shiro pulls Keith tight against his front. “And what’s for dessert, baby?”

Keith shoots a narrow-eyed glance at the screen. The credits have completed, but instead of calls for the next season, there is a message in text only.

_The production team regret to inform our adoring public that there are no open applications for the next season, as the show is cancelled. Thank you for joining us on this remarkable adventure._

Shiro almost, _almost_ , feels sorry for Sanda, who hitched herself to a format which was not repeatable without the same intentions behind it. Shiro knows there will be plenty of people who blame him, and Keith, for tanking the show. He also knows that not one of them will be getting the time of day from him, or anyone else involved in the last season.

Keith’s creeping fingertips distract him from his thoughts.

“You still want dessert, big guy?”

“What did you have in mind?” Shiro purrs. He’s not blushing now, because all his blood is being used somewhere else.

Keith gives him a soft, lopsided smile, and speaks between kisses.

“Follow me to the bedroom, pretty boy. I’mma rock your world.”

Shiro follows him up and across their little house, helpless to resist. They both spent so much time resisting each other and not touching, and as Keith squeezes his fingers and flashes up the hem of his stolen sweatshirt, Shiro holds on tighter.

He’s never letting go again.

**Author's Note:**

> Please come chat with us on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/SashaDistan)
> 
> This author responds to comments.
> 
> Thank you to the incredible [Lole](https://twitter.com/@leandralena) for being an awesome beta reader.


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